


in our empty rooms

by acceluration, hellkaiserryose (Odasakus)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! GX
Genre: Alcohol, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-07 11:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14669877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceluration/pseuds/acceluration, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odasakus/pseuds/hellkaiserryose
Summary: Moving in with Fubuki, Ryo and Edo can't be the worst decision Manjoume's ever made, right?...Right?





	1. Chapter 1

Manjoume had thought coexisting with Marufuji Ryo, the former Hell Kaiser and current occupant of his second-largest bedroom, would be strange at best and impossible at worst. They’d never had much to say to each other at school – although Ryo had never had much to say to anyone, besides Fubuki and Asuka and Judai – and the years since had done little to change that. Shou had, eventually, started to become a friend; Ryo, perpetually outside his orbit, had never stopped being an ideal. But it’s one thing to respect the Kaiser as a duelist, and quite another for Manjoume to wake up the morning after he had moved in and recall that, yes, technically they were now tenant and landlord.

With Fubuki sick and jetlagged at his parents' house, unable to play the buffer, he'd been worried about their ability to get along. But the three days they’ve spent living together so far have been… nice, actually. The Kaiser is quiet, unobtrusive, and surprisingly amenable to after-dinner duels. Not Solid Vision, because the doctor insists his heart can’t take the strain, but the casual coffee-table matches of Manjoume’s youth. Two seasons off the pro circuit have barely dulled the Kaiser’s skills, even if his aura isn’t what it used to be and he flips over trap cards with clumsy fingers. He’s slaughtered 3-1, best of five, the first time they play; the next night, Manjoume reworks his entire sideboard and ekes out a 3-2 victory. The Kaiser broods about it at first but, before he heads to bed, tosses out an offhand compliment about his winning combo. He waits until he hears Ryo’s door click shut, then lets himself gloat just a little.

It’s true they’re still waiting on two more housemates to meet quota, but life is blissfully normal. And, slowly, Manjoume lets himself relax.

That is, of course, until Edo Phoenix walks in the door.

He’s irritatingly fresh for seven in the morning, the lines of his suit as crisp as ever. Manjoume, unshowered and unshaven and blinking back exhaustion, is less pleased to see him than usual.

He holds up a hand when Manjoume attempts to speak, which is infuriating on its own, but that’s made worse by the fact that Edo doesn’t bother to look up from his phone. He stews in it while Edo finishes typing out a text and, finally, deigns to put the damn thing away. “Sorry about that. Which room is mine?”

“Dealer’s choice. I’m in the master,” he gestures, then nods towards the closed doorway at the opposite end of the apartment, “and Kaiser’s in that one.”

Edo skims his eyes over the rest of the place, “I’ll take that one,” he says, and heads towards it, bag slung over his shoulder as he makes for the room across from Kaiser’s. “Is he in?”

“He’s sleeping,” Manjoume says, not bothering to stifle his passive-aggression or his yawn.

“I’ll have the movers come later, then. There’s no sense in disturbing everyone.” He sends a message quickly, and Manjoume isn’t sure why he followed him to the bedroom. The look Edo gives him is searching.

Manjoume speaks without thinking. “We aren’t going to bring the whole... _rivalry_ thing home with us, are we?”

Edo just gives his usual infuriating laugh in response. “Of course not, Manjoume.”

And a season of striving to maintain his position and further earn his success over Edo meant his press conference voice was all too familiar, a different dramatism than the regular. Manjoume wonders, not for the first time, if this particular decision had been a mistake. Fubuki was the obvious first choice when he was drafting housemates, considering he made up ninety percent of Manjoume’s social contact and a hundred percent of the people amenable to letting him crash on the couch. The suggestion that Kaiser become their third had been a given; his own reply, suggesting the man he had a very public, very personal rivalry with as their fourth, absolutely hadn’t. He isn’t sure why he thought of Edo, only that he vaguely regrets it now, but living with Fubuki and Kaiser alone would have been worse. Edo was as much a buffer as he’d hoped Fubuki would be.

Loneliness had clamped onto him immediately after leaving Academia, far more intense than Manjoume cared to admit. His relationship with his previous landlord had been bad, but he hadn’t thought it was _eviction-notice_ bad, right up until the letter had arrived in the mail. Ego in pieces, he’d figured he didn’t have pride left to swallow, and let himself fall pitifully to a position he wished wasn’t familiar: pleading for his brothers to save him. Shoving to the back of his mind the decision he’d made to never rely on them again, he’d endured their jabs at his independence being nothing to write home about, and lowered his gaze to repeat his request until they’d conceded. The apartment hadn’t been lived in before, one of many their conglomerate had as assets, and he reminded himself that using the resources available to him was different than depending on his brothers to provide. Chosaku and Shoji had called him incompetent; he was determined to prove them wrong.

Three bedrooms to fill and he couldn’t help the doubt that this one would be better occupied by literally anybody other than Edo Phoenix, who looks at him, amused. “How’s living with Ryo?”

Manjoume thinks about the quiet comfort they’d found in the shared home, a peace he’s sure they’ve now lost. “Fine. We stay out of each other’s way.” Less so than Manjoume had assumed they would, but he’s found himself grateful for the company.

“Sounds like him. My bathroom?” Edo asks, slinging a towel from his bag around his shoulders. Manjoume points him in the right direction, and steps aside to let him through.

“How were the qualifiers?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

It comes out all wrong, and Edo pauses in the doorway. “They were fine. Good. I ranked first.”

Things were easy for Edo – or, even if he now knew Edo worked harder than he’d ever let on, at least it seemed that way. The pro league was his wheelhouse, and he was well-acquainted with victory. Manjoume chokes back resentment at his easy words.

“Congratulations,” Manjoume says, in a tone he hopes is less bitter than he feels. The entry requirement for the tournament was two full seasons on the pro circuit, and Manjoume had only learned as much six months into his campaign. His goal for the year taken down in an instant, he’d been left treading water as he dueled for something no longer in reach.

He nods at Edo’s polite gratitude before he closes the bathroom door behind him and the shower starts up. Sitting at the kitchen counter, supporting his temples with his hands, he’s suddenly certain this was a mistake.

It isn’t Fubuki’s fault that he’s been laid low with jet lag from visiting Asuka, as well as whatever bug he’d picked up on the flight back. But Manjoume, unfairly, sort of wishes it was; at least then he could have someone else to blame. Unfortunately, breakfast seems like a better option at this point than sleep, so he resigns himself to his fate and pours himself some cereal. He sits at the table and eats, scrolling through the profile of the man he’s supposed to be dueling next weekend. He makes it about halfway through – something about an animal theme, an unimpressive record in the previous season – before he gives up and flicks to a different app. He buys lives in the dumb match-three game he plays sometimes and goes through a couple of mindless rounds, wonders whether his brothers can see what he’s spending on. He makes a point not to look up when he hears the shower turn off and Edo return to his room.

“Morning.” Manjoume glances at Kaiser as he enters the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. There was something to seeing the man, the former pride of Duel Academia, in only pyjama pants and bed hair, lumbering into the kitchen in search of water.

“Hey.” He taps pause and locks out the device, moving to the kitchen counter and pulling up a stool.

Kaiser downs a pill with water, sets some food into the microwave, and turns on the coffee maker. He yawns as he leans back against the counter. “You aren’t usually up this early.”

“ _Someone_ decided to move in at seven.”

“Edo’s here?” Manjoume nods. “I thought he only flew in last night.”

“He said his plane landed at five, and he didn’t see any point wasting time before coming.” Manjoume takes the cup of coffee he’s handed. “His stuff is arriving later. He said he didn’t want to wake you.”

“Okay.”

Manjoume isn’t quite sure what he’s expected to say. Kaiser was never one for talking much, but it had been easier than usual this week. Incredible, how Edo Phoenix had derailed their comfortable existence without even being in the room. He pulls his tablet towards himself for something to do with his hands, flicking to the _Duel Magazine: Professional_ feed. He scrolls past the large image of his newest housemate to find the national standings, as Kaiser drops into the seat beside him.

Manjoume looks at him when he hears a soft, unimpressed sound. “What?”

“You know it only updates on weekends.”

If they’re talking about bad habits, Manjoume’s fairly sure Kaiser’s not actually allowed to have caffeine. Instead, more interested in preserving their cultivated peace, he  pulls up the rankings anyway, eyeing off the number four beside his name. He thinks about his defeat of Kaiser, and reminds himself to consider the strategy for his upcoming match. Cyber Art is two seasons behind the metagame, but playing against it had opened up some possibilities he hadn’t considered before. With the latest banlist and constant card drops, the game was changing, and Manjoume was learning to adapt his deck accordingly.

“Manjoume, is there anything to –” Edo walks out of his bedroom, cutting himself off abruptly as he sees Kaiser. “Long time no see, Ryo.”

Ryo gives a noncommittal hum. Undeterred, Edo continues into the kitchen. “Is there anything to eat? I should have picked up breakfast after seeing my trainer, but it slipped my mind.”

Kaiser responds before Manjoume can, sliding his plate with a mostly untouched bagel across the counter towards him. “Have it. I’m not hungry.”

Edo’s face flickers with an expression which could mean _is this poisoned_ as easily as it could mean _please eat something_ , but he ends up taking the plate. Ryo looks at Edo when he thanks him, and then they seem to forget to look away. Manjoume opens his game again, less because of any real desire to play and more to pretend he isn’t stuck in the same space as these two. He tries to tune it out, but their attempts at communication are inexcusably painful.

“We watched the broadcast. Congratulations on your win.”

“Thank you. It was an easy match, honestly.”

“You hit your stride early, managing to combo Destiny Draw into Destiny Signal.”

“I don’t know how anyone running a _mill chain_ made it to the finals.”

“You obliterated him. He didn’t stand a chance.”

They make a perfectly domestic picture. Edo leans against the counter as he drinks from a mug, affecting a casual air, but the smirk he’s wearing matches Ryo’s. It’s incredibly unsettling, and he’s not at all sure he was invited to this conversation.

Kaiser continues, either missing or ignoring the atmosphere. “Fubuki hasn’t moved in yet. He’s sick.” Edo looks at him with an expression he can’t read. “He caught something while visiting Asuka, and he’ll be here soon.”

“Hope he’s fine.”

Kaiser nods. “He will be.”

Disturbed by the atmosphere, Manjoume slides his chair back and stands. Edo and Kaiser’s conversation conflicts too much with the way they’re staring at each other, their words at odds with their tones at odds with their actions. It doesn’t make sense, and he hates that.

“I have to prepare for this weekend,” he says abruptly, retreating to his bedroom, away from the exchange he can’t parse. He misses his peaceful life with Kaiser already.

*

Manjoume hates that he’s hidden in his room all day, but his desire to avoid being around Edo pairs well with his absolute disinterest in helping him move in, so he’s spent much of his day draped over the edge of his bed, refreshing the same three apps. He emerges when the smell of garlic seeps beneath his door, luring him out. He falters in his doorway as the two of them come into view: Edo’s arm is around Kaiser’s waist, and he leans around the taller man to dip a spoon into whatever is cooking. Manjoume doesn’t think he’s seen anyone handle the Kaiser with such informality before, their bodies close and actions familiar. There’s an intimacy there that confuses him almost as much as it makes him ache.

He walks into the kitchen and tries not to stare. “You’re helping?” he asks, incredulous. He had worked for Edo for a month, living and travelling with him every day, and never once saw him even approach preparing his own food. In all honesty, that was the only reason Manjoume knows how to cook more than instant noodles. Kaiser swats Edo’s spoon away as it makes its way back into what Manjoume can now see is, predictably, some kind of pasta sauce.

“Define helping,” Kaiser says dryly, his elbow jutting out in an attempt to deter Edo, who only ducks around his other side and emerges, victorious, with a spoonful that he immediately sticks into his mouth. It’s weird, and honestly kind of creeps Manjoume out to see Edo grinning so playfully.

“It needs more salt,” Edo remarks, as he moves past Manjoume and sits at the counter.

Kaiser huffs quietly. “Why am I not surprised you think that,” he says, and adds some anyway.

“Anything I can do to help?” Manjoume asks, mostly for the sake of stepping in. They’ve taken turns cooking since moving, because his culinary needs extend further than eating the single meal Kaiser knows how to make every evening, but suddenly he feels incredibly unwelcome.

“It’s more or less done.” Kaiser says, stirring the bolognese. He’s drinking Scotch, which strikes Manjoume as odd behaviour _before_ dinner, and yet, contemplating the issue of Edo Phoenix: he can understand the urge to drink.

He grabs three plates and pairs of cutlery and sets the table, if just to spite Edo for doing nothing. He stares at the settings for slightly too long, trying to decide where best to place Edo. Beside himself is out, beside Kaiser seems unfair, and the head of the table isn’t something he’s willing to concede. He finally settles on giving himself the seat on its own; every man for himself. He retrieves a bottle of cider for himself and one of the familiar bottles of black tea for Edo, only remembering to be annoyed about it after he’s already placed it on the table. He cracks his bottle, and drinks from it more deeply than usual.

Manjoume, as the local landlord and maker of power moves, doesn’t even bother hiding the fact he’s eavesdropping. Edo doesn’t acknowledge it if he notices, chin resting on his hands as he watches Kaiser finish the meal.

“I hope your duels haven’t remained as bland as your cooking repertoire.” Manjoume can’t believe the tone of his voice, can’t imagine Ryo will stand for it either. The Kaiser, the most carefully cultivated force to emerge from Duel Academia, one of its foundation students, baited by someone three years his junior. It’s such an obvious provocation, but Manjoume knows Kaiser well enough to know that despite his complex relationship with respectful duels, he’s above such petty taunts. He doesn’t need to see Edo’s face to guess at his expression when Kaiser glances over his shoulder at him.

“We’ll see after dinner. Loser does the dishes.”

Edo chuckles. “There he is.”

Manjoume watches in stunned silence as the two share a look he can’t parse. Kaiser’s gaze is alive, in a way he hasn’t seen since his graduation duel, what feels like lifetimes ago. Kaiser’s passion had been tangible, and it had kindled something in Manjoume in turn; he remembers gripping the seat in front of him with white knuckles, leaning in, only realising he’d been holding his breath after the final blow had landed. Kaiser Ryo had been his idol for a reason and now, years later, a stranger in his own kitchen, he recalls why.

Something bitter stirs as he realises that Edo managed to draw this out of him, and his own duels against Kaiser hadn’t. He speaks before he can stop himself. “I suppose I can allow a new challenger for tonight, but you’re not getting out of our rematch.” He tries to pass it off as banter, but feels it land awkwardly in the room. They finally seem to remember he’s there as they glance over at him.

“You don’t mind, right, Manjoume?” Edo says, in the voice Manjoume knows is reserved for journalists and job prospects he has no interest in. He grinds his teeth to bite back a retort.

Kaiser, at least, has the decency to seem half-apologetic. “Tomorrow? Edo and I haven’t dueled each other in a while.” They glance at each other again. “We can have a tag duel once Fubuki arrives.”

He thinks about Fubuki, and the pride he would find in teaming up with his mentor to take down the supposed Edo/Kaiser powerhouse duo. He didn’t know much of their history, but despite his best efforts to tune it out, Ojama Yellow had recounted all sorts of stories about them in the other world. That was a victory he was sure would taste sweet, and if anyone knew Kaiser’s deck well enough to beat it, it had to be Fubuki.

“Deal.”

The strangeness persists throughout dinner. Manjoume sits opposite Kaiser and tries not to stare as Edo swipes his drink so often he offers him his own. Manjoume drinks from his cider and distractedly weaves spaghetti onto his fork, as Kaiser returns with a new glass. He scowls when he sees Edo has simply claimed his previous one. They eat in silence for a few moments before Kaiser shoots Edo a look, and then looks at Manjoume.

“Did you want another drink?” he asks. They stand in sync as Manjoume says yes, and he relents only because this is Kaiser and his gaze is steelier than anyone’s. He sits reluctantly as Kaiser enters the kitchen again to retrieve him a drink. Edo sips pleasantly from Kaiser’s first glass, eyeing him.

“So, Manjoume, how’s the league treating you?” he asks.

Manjoume softens, slightly. At least he’s inquiring on common ground, rather than speaking down to him. “It’s going well. My manager is trying to help me maintain a balance between being serious and a real threat and not abandoning the whole,” he waves a hand vaguely, hoping Edo can intuit what he means, “you know.”

“I don’t, actually. Care to explain?”

He can’t read that expression. It could easily be genuine, but he knows how accomplished an actor Edo is, and he doesn’t quite buy it. “The way I found my following initially.”

Edo’s lips curl up slightly. “Ojamanjoume was quite the aesthetic,” he says carefully, looking up at Kaiser as he returns and places the bottle in front of Manjoume. “Don’t you agree, Kaiser?”

“I was in the hospital.”

The table falls silent, and Manjoume sets his cutlery down. The Kaiser wasn’t one for sharing, but he couldn’t deny that he was interested in hearing more. Edo inspects his plate, then seems to find it less interesting than inspecting Kaiser.

“How’s your recovery, Ryo?”

Kaiser drinks. “Progressing.” He pauses. “Manjoume is working hard. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in line to take you on very shortly.” He shoots him a small smile, and Manjoume feels himself preen under it.

“Thank you, Kaiser.”

“Interesting point,” Edo says, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Coming from a man who quit the pro league and launched into an existential crisis after a single loss.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“It’s fine,” Ryo interjects as he sees Manjoume become more riled up at Edo’s words. “He’s just insecure so he’s lashing out childishly, like always.” And that’s his cue to tune them out once more. He dispiritedly finishes his meal, then a third bottle of cider in the kitchen, to a soundtrack of the increasingly challenging slander at his dining table.

He washes his bowl, grabs another drink and resigns himself to the couch. He flicks on the television, looking over the back of the sofa at them when he catches his name.

“You’ll judge, right, Manjoume?”

He stares them down. Edo has a hand curled around Kaiser’s wrist, a mad grin on his face. Kaiser seems as though he’s trying to be less interested than he is. He accepts, mostly because it promises to be an entertaining duel.

Edo excuses himself, and Manjoume helps clear the coffee table. He takes the sofa and Kaiser kneels on the floor, shuffling his deck and putting it down.

“He doesn’t carry a deck box any more?” he asks, listening to Edo knock around in his room.

“I think he just doesn’t at home.”

Manjoume shrugs, hand moving down to thumb at the latch to his own. He keeps his close at all times, even if his spirits get rowdy. There’s safety in having them right where he needs them, and even at home he notices the missing weight.

Edo returns quickly, holding a deck box, and drops to the opposite side of the table. He flips the coin and covers it, deferring to Kaiser.

“Heads.”

He reveals it, and Kaiser elects to take second turn, to nobody’s surprise. Manjoume leans forward to peek at his hand; when Kaiser denies him, turning the cards away haughtily, he rolls his eyes and looks to his opponent instead. He watches Edo as he sets two cards, and summons another.

“I summon Elemental Hero Featherman, in attack position.”

Manjoume checks back at Kaiser, who presses his lips together. “Really?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Kaiser hums thoughtfully. He draws a card, and his lips twitch. “Due to its effect, I can special summon Cyber Dragon from my hand, in attack position.” He lays the card down with a smirk. “And I attack Featherman.”

Manjoume’s hand shifts towards his phone to write down Edo’s life points, but hesitates at Edo’s chuckle, watching with bated breath as he flips a trap card.

“History is repeating itself, _senpai._ ” His tone is playful, irreverent, as he catches his tongue between his teeth and flips a trap card. “Draining Shield. _2100_ life points, Manjoume.”

Ryo’s hand moves quickly to flip over his own, before Manjoume can do as he’s instructed. “More than you realise, Edo.” He chains Trap Booster, makes quick work of discarding so he can activate Trap Jammer from his hand. Edo doesn’t even flinch, and responds by turning over his own identical card.

They stare at each other with a look somewhere between affection and nostalgia, and Manjoume is surprised by how tender the gaze is. They clear the activated cards and Manjoume notes down the increase in Edo’s life.

“We should shuffle, just in case destiny is damning us to replay our greatest hits.”

Edo smiles, but it’s unpleasant. “I’m pleased to hear your greatest hits include losing to me.” He picks up his deck and does so anyway, their eyes meeting across the table as they mirror one another’s actions.

Manjoume prays, not for the first time in his life, that Fubuki might swing down from the rafters and save him. He’d probably invent all kinds of implications that aren’t there, but even that would be preferable to being subjected to this, the distinctive bait-and-hook the two have going on. Ryo’s hackles visibly raise whenever Edo quirks an eyebrow at him, and eyebrow-quirking is by far the least of his offenses. Exhaustedly, he buries his head into a sofa cushion and wishes he could disappear.

*

Manjoume hopes, against all hope, that the breathless tension between his housemates is a once-off. That they’re just working off the energy of not having seen each other in weeks, and it’ll fade in time.

It doesn’t. Naive of him, to think either Kaiser or Edo would tire of this game so quickly. He takes to going to bed early to avoid them, feeling like a tenant in his own home. He slinks out of his room a couple of days in, late in the evening for some water, and finds them asleep together on the couch. The room is warm but Manjoume is suddenly cold, and he pulls his dressing gown tighter around him. But it can’t make up for the way Edo’s head is buried in Kaiser’s chest, or the familiarity in how Kaiser’s arm wraps around him. In the half-light they’re a single being, a tangle of limbs and intimacy, impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Sheepish, Manjoume flicks off the television and retreats quickly without a word.

He brings it up over coffee with Edo in the morning. He offers to buy some, and Edo insists on accompanying him, so they end up across from each other at some upmarket cafe. His companion rattles off about fifty words to the cashier, and winds up with some iced, dozen-shot monstrosity; Manjoume, left exposed and self-conscious, orders a latte.

“You and the Kaiser looked comfortable last night,” he says, before he can think it through too much.

Edo’s eyebrows rise, and he sets his drink down. He’s quiet for a while, toying idly with the mug where its handle meets its side, before speaking. “It’s complicated.”

“What’s so complicated about falling asleep on the couch?” He laughs airily, aware of how strange he’s acting when Edo frowns at him.

“You tell me, Manjoume.”

He shrugs, and lowers his head. They don’t talk on their return to the apartment, nor for the following days. He avoids his housemates like the plague, embarrassed and out of place mostly by his own doing.

Around the fifth day, he gives in and texts Fubuki. His message is concise, asking his master, in the politest terms possible, how long one person can reasonably be sick for. All things considered, he’s acting within his rights. Their fourth housemate was supposed to have moved in over a week ago, which in Manjoume’s opinion means he’s either faking it or on his deathbed, and he likes to think he’d be notified if it was the latter.

Fubuki doesn’t reply straight away, which makes him irrationally annoyed. Surely somebody who claims to have been bedridden all week has nothing better to do than check his phone. Maybe he’s asleep – actually, Manjoume hopes he is, because that would mean he’s actively trying to recover.

He’s on his feet for the next few hours, first with an interview and then an exhibition match, and doesn’t have time to check his messages. When he finally catches a break, he comes back to two notifications: a brief text from Kaiser, asking if he’ll be home for dinner, and a video message from Fubuki. He fires off a polite “yes” to the former, then cranks up the volume and opens the latter.

He’s greeted by a close-up of a wall, covered in photographs. It’s understandable that Fubuki doesn’t want to be on film if he’s sick, but Manjoume isn’t sure staring at a picture of him in Obelisk Blue garb, one arm around Fujiwara and the other around Ryo, is going to be much better. The concept of him before his disappearance – before _Manjoume_ – is surreal somehow, even backed up by evidence. In a world without Darkness, they would have met under vastly different circumstances: the Blizzard Prince would have been one of the kings of Duel Academia, and Manjoume a first-year hungry for his approval. Their paths would have crossed, but never meaningfully, never for long. One of the most important relationships he has, and they should, objectively, have been ships in the night instead.

He knows this, of course. He thinks about it all the time, in fact, usually when he least wants to. Still, it’s a bitter truth to be reminded of.

Manjoume’s finger is still hovering over the message’s play button. He exhales a long, slow breath, and taps on it.

“Sorry, Manjoume.” Fubuki’s voice cuts in from offscreen, and he jolts shamefully back to reality. His friend sounds awful, raspy and congested in a way that can’t be faked. “I really have come down with something, probably because of the plane. You know how flights are, sadly. I’m usually in such good health, too, so I couldn’t tell you why this happened.” He breaks off to cough. “Karma, perhaps. Anyway, I can’t give you a date, but – soon, I swear.” A hand shoots out in front of the lens in some kind of salute. “Hold out for me, okay? And tell Ryo I said I hope he’s behaving.”

The arm pulls back, the video rolls to a stop, and he’s left staring at Fubuki and Ryo and Fujiwara again. The trio are clearly happy, and the more he stares at the photo, the less he can remember seeing any of them smile as widely since. He’s never pushed too hard to try to understand what happened with them, content with knowing it has to do with Darkness, and that Fubuki overcame it. He stops himself before he can think too hard about how little he knows about his friend.

With a sigh, Manjoume turns off his phone and tosses it into a pocket. There’s nothing waiting for him at home, just his pseudo-rivalry with Edo and whatever not-quite-friendship he has with Kaiser. And the company of the Ojamas, but that might be the only thing worse than dealing with his housemates. The whole situation is exhausting.

All that’s left to do is hold out.

*

If both dinners and casual encounters had become uncomfortable since Edo’s arrival, Manjoume had hoped breakfasts, at least, could remain neutral territory. Edo’s schedule was permanently ingrained in his memory, mornings starting at 6am with a trip to his personal trainer; on the other hand, Ryo always slept late because of some medication he was on. And Manjoume had taken a liking to having time on his own, in a quiet kitchen, with food he’d prepared for himself. It’s soothing, in a way little else is.

He enters the kitchen in the same clothes he fell asleep in, retrieving the ingredients for an omelette. Once he’s mastered them, he thinks, he’ll offer to cook for Ryo sometimes too. He slides his phone into the dock speaker and allows shuffle to guide the playlist, setting about preparing a pan, cracking eggs into it. It’s peaceful, and the most calm he’s felt since Edo arrived. And it’s torn down in an instant when the door opens, and Edo walks in.

He toes off his shoes by the door and tugs the gym bag a little further up his shoulder. “Are you making omelettes?”

Manjoume nods, almost mechanically.

“It smells great. I’ll take one if you’re offering. Use the diced chicken I put in the fridge,” he says, leaving as soon as he arrived to deposit his bag.

The moment passes for Manjoume to have made it clear that he wasn’t, in fact, offering, and so he retrieves more ingredients, as instructed. Edo sits opposite him at the counter.

“We can talk strategy while we’re here. My gift in exchange for breakfast.” Edo smiles, and Manjoume wishes he understood how he can do that after an hour at the gym. “Ryo and I will be attending the duel this weekend, you know.”

Manjoume wants to tell him not to come, wants to tell him to make his own damn omelette, mostly just wants his mornings back. Edo had taken everything from him, and he finds himself wishing, practically praying, for some intervention to call him away.

He sighs, but not even that can capture his exhaustion. “I’m looking forward to it.”


	2. Chapter 2

There’s someone shuffling around in the kitchen when Manjoume gets home the following day. Which is unexpected, because Ryo’s out on business with Shou, Edo isn’t supposed to be back until late, and he doesn’t think his brothers would drop by without warning. It sets alarm bells ringing in his mind, and he toes his shoes off as quietly as he can.

Manjoume isn’t sure of the protocol for dealing with thieves, but one thing’s for sure: he can’t lose the element of surprise. Part of him wonders, fearfully, what the burglar might have taken; a significantly larger part of him hopes they’ll do him a favour and steal Edo Phoenix, restoring the status quo. He holds his breath as he creeps forward, socks sliding noiselessly over the tile. Slowly, slowly, the intruder comes into view –

“Oh,” Fubuki says, not diverting any attention from his fridge raid. He still sounds a little worse for wear, but otherwise seems to be in the pink of health. “Hey, Manjoume.”

Manjoume’s jaw works uselessly as he tries to figure out how to begin. His friend and master is perfectly at home already, snagging a box of leftover takeout with one hand, already balancing utensils, three more containers, and a glass of water in the other, in the way that only Fubuki ever really can. “How – how did you get in here?”

“I asked Ryo to hide a key in the front courtyard.”

“And you didn’t… feel like telling me you were moving in?”

“I thought Ryo would say something.”

It always baffles Manjoume that anyone could have known the Kaiser as long as Fubuki, and still maintain such faith in his communication skills. “Yeah, well. Obviously he didn’t.”

“Don’t sulk. Have you had lunch?”

He has, in fact, had lunch, and he definitely isn’t sulking. But he still follows Fubuki to the dining table and takes a seat opposite.

“How’ve things been here?”

Manjoume tries, and fails, not to make a face. As if things aren’t far, far too complex for him to know where to begin. “After you,” he says, because it’s that or lying.

“Oh,” Fubuki says breezily, “but nothing’s been happening with _me_. I’ve been sick in bed all week, Manjoume, without anyone around to nurse me back to health. That’s all.”

“Does your sister normally take care of you?”

He can see it in his mind now: Asuka making soup in the kitchen, Asuka waiting on him with medicine and tissues, Asuka’s cool hands against his feverish skin… Nine months and several thousand kilometres have made his feelings for her abate, a little, but he doesn’t think they’ll ever disappear. His memories of Duel Academia are nearly as bound up with Asuka as they are with Judai, and even though there’s no chance his love will reach her now – he’s still not quite ready to let go.

“Only since Darkness,” says Fubuki, scraping at a clump of rice, and Manjoume immediately feels like a heel. “It’s natural for a sister to worry about her brother after that, I suppose.”

“Master –”

He glances up. “You know, you can call me by name. We’re going to be living together now – well, living _more_ together.”

“But that doesn’t feel right. You’re older than me, and it doesn’t seem respectful.”

“What do you call Ryo, then?”

“Kaiser, of course.”

Fubuki exhales. Manjoume keeps going.

“Besides, Kaiser isn’t my mentor. And you’ve been taking care of me since first year, and you’ve taught me everything I know about love, and –”

“Ryo hasn’t been answering my texts.”

He pulls himself up, but mostly because Fubuki’s so serious. “I thought you said he left you a key.”

“He did. He just didn’t reply to my message about it.”

“Is that… unusual?” he hazards. “Kaiser seems the type to leave people on read, even on a good day.”

Fubuki sets his chopsticks down, resting across the lip of a takeout box, and looks at him. It’s odd timing, but Manjoume’s acutely aware of the gap in their age and experiences. In Obelisk Blue uniform, it was easy to feel like Fubuki was just another classmate, if a worldly and admirable one; here, in casual clothes, in their newly shared main room, he suddenly seems much older. Manjoume’s been honing himself, personally and professionally, in the pro league, but Fubuki’s been off travelling the world. How much has he seen, before and since, that Manjoume can’t even begin to comprehend? His friend’s bangs are a little shorter than they were in high school, and they frame a new melancholy in his eyes.

“You’re right,” Fubuki says at last. “I’m overthinking it.”

Well. The fact of the matter is, it’s probably a split between Fubuki’s overactive imagination and Ryo’s strange behaviour, and he needs to tackle it as such. “Um,” he says. “Kaiser and Edo are… fine, aren’t they?”

“We talked about this, Manjoume. They’re friends.”

These days, Manjoume has his share of bizarre friendships, but none of them are even remotely like whatever those two have been doing. “I know, but I can’t tell if they actually like each other.”

“Hmmm.”

“I thought you’d have more to say about it.”

“I haven’t seen either of them in weeks, let alone together. I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

“Something wise, like usual.”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” he says, but it doesn’t land quite right. He stands, gathers the empty containers around him into a pile. “Well, good to see you, but I need to unpack.”

Having Fubuki around was supposed to alleviate the tension that’s been hovering over the apartment all week. But there’s a sour taste in Manjoume’s mouth as his master moves to leave, and he’s on his feet before he can process it.

“Let me help.”

“Ah – thank you, but no thank you. I’ve got it under control.”

“Master, I insist.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, “I’m sure.”

It shouldn’t, but it hurts. What does he have to hide now, as if Manjoume hadn’t been the most consistent thing in his life for the last three years? Even after high school, with Judai travelling and Asuka studying and Shou buried under work, Fubuki was supposed to have been a constant. At graduation, overcome by a sudden sentimentality, Manjoume had made him promise they’d stick together. That they’d remain master and student, if only so he could trust one thing in his life not to change. He still remembers the way Fubuki had stared into his drink, expression unreadable, and said: _of course._

“Let me know if you need anything,” Manjoume says lamely.

He doesn’t even look back. “I will.”

*

Manjoume goes out, after that. He’s in a mood to sulk, but unfortunately his schedule is unforgiving: he’s supposed to be playing some friendly matches against a pro duelist in another division, and meeting with his manager to discuss sponsorships, and not dwelling uselessly on how _off_ Fubuki had seemed.

When he arrives home that evening, it’s to voices in the lounge room, and Fubuki’s in particular. He has to pass through the common area to get to his room, and he dreads it already. Maybe someday he’ll walk in on an interaction in this house that doesn’t make him feel like he’s interrupting.

Fubuki is sprawled across the couch, feet in Ryo’s lap and hands flying every which way as he talks. Any sign of his earlier peculiarity is gone; he’s exactly like his regular self, not somebody who wants to be alone or worries about Kaiser never texting him back. Especially because, somehow, Ryo seems slightly less unimpressed than usual.

“– so there I was, alone in Cairo, with shaky English and worse Arabic, and a two-metre-tall Libyan insisting I duel him because I’d looked at his girlfriend wrong.”

“Right,” says Kaiser. “And then?”

“I dueled him and won, of course.” Fubuki wriggles, repositioning himself. “You know the Mediterranean metagame uses a slightly different set of staple traps?”

“Really.”

“Oh, yes. They like their Mirror Forces much better than we do, the Mediterraneans.”

Well, clearly there’s nothing to worry about on the Fubuki front; he must have been imagining the worst about their earlier encounter. Manjoume’s ready to retreat to his room, right until his master’s head turns in his direction.

“Oh, are you free later? Ryo and I thought we could have a housewarming party.”

Kaiser’s face suggests it wasn’t his idea at all. And, frankly, Manjoume isn’t sold either.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, _why_? We’re all here, and we don’t need an excuse.”

He’s happy to enable most of Fubuki’s ideas, no matter how ridiculous, but most of them don’t include inviting the Edo-Kaiser weirdness onto themselves. But, surely, there’s someone in this house even less thrilled by the prospect than he is – especially after a long, exhausting day of work. “I’ll only come if Edo does.”

“Oh, he will,” says Fubuki, with the confidence of someone who’s never had to deal with Edo Phoenix. “He will.”

As much as Manjoume would like to see the clash of those two unstoppable forces – which is to say, not at all – he has better things to do. “Good luck, master. Let me know if it works.”

Ryo and Fubuki fix him with unmatching looks. Fubuki seems vaguely harpooned, and while he’s no expert at deciphering the shifts in Kaiser’s sole facial expression, he’s fairly sure this one means _you’re really still on that nickname?_

“Don’t be a stranger, Manjoume.” Fubuki flaps a hand at the couch opposite. “Come sit with us.”

He hesitates. Dealing with Fubuki and Ryo together isn’t ideal, but it still beats having to be in the same room as Kaiser and Edo. It’s kind of sad that’s become his bar for social interaction, all things considered, but that’s apparently what the last week has done. In the end, it’s the promise of getting to spend some normal time with Fubuki, more than anything, that makes him take a seat.

“Good, good,” Fubuki says, and as minor as it is, Manjoume still has to try not to preen. “Anyway, I was just telling Ryo about my travels. Don’t you want to hear how Asuka’s doing?”

Desperately, in fact, but he’s not sure Kaiser will be impressed by his eagerness. And he’s never worked out where Fubuki actually stands on his feelings for his sister, either. In the end, he opts for a safe middle ground. “Please.”

“ _Well_ , since you ask, her marks are some of the best they’ve ever seen. It’s only been a semester, but they’re already talking about scholarships and accelerated-degree programs.”

“Your parents must be proud.”

Kaiser tenses up, hands folding into each other, and Manjoume can’t help but feel like he’s misstepped somehow; of all people, he should know how fraught family matters are. Fubuki, though, only laughs.

“Yes, we’re all – so proud of my darling Asuka. Flown the nest, and taking on the world… it’s enough to make a brother cry.”

The Tenjoin siblings’ dedication to each other truly is admirable. Not for the first time, Manjoume wonders if he’d have attached himself to Fubuki if his own brothers had cared about him as more than an heir. “Understandable,” he says, because he doesn’t trust himself with any more. “She’s a credit to you.”

“She’s mostly a credit to herself,” says Kaiser. “Asuka’s a capable student and duelist in her own right.”

“I helped, though.”

Ryo looks vaguely uncomfortable – well, more vaguely uncomfortable than normal. No doubt he has a lot to say on the topic of younger siblings, all of it complicated. Out of the goodness of his heart, Manjoume decides to offer an escape route.

“How are preparations for your league going?”

“Not bad,” Kaiser says, flashing him a grateful glance, “except that one of our prospective sponsors is holding out on us. They’re asking far more than we’re prepared to give.”

“What are your tactics?”

“Shou and I have tried everything.”

“Everything?” Manjoume repeats, because he may not ever have been in a boardroom himself, but he’s definitely been boardroom-adjacent.

“To be honest, it’s because we don’t have much in the way of a public relations team at the moment. If we could just – ”

“I’m establishing a house rule,” Fubuki cuts in, flipping himself into a sitting position. “We, four of the most eligible bachelors in town, are hereby mandated to have _fun_. Not talk about dreary things like work.”

“We are?” says Manjoume.

“You’ve been here for six hours,” says Kaiser.

“I’m the most senior housemate, Ryo. I get to pull rank on things like these.”

“You’re certainly the oldest.”

“Ha ha.” Fubuki, finding nothing, turns the full force of his pout on his landlord instead. “But I can count on _you_ to have fun, right, Manjoume?”

If he’s being honest with himself, that was one of his primary motivators for moving in together. Objectively, Manjoume’s life is better now than it ever was at Duel Academia; he hasn’t died or started a cult or gotten launched to another dimension once, and he doesn’t miss it. But he does miss having Fubuki just down the hall, always amenable to being roped into some kind of adventure.

Now that he thinks about it, Fubuki is probably his best friend – although if he felt the same, he’d be sprawling over Manjoume’s lap instead, wouldn’t he. He swallows the bad taste in the back of his throat. “Absolutely.”

“You don’t need to go along with him all the time,” Kaiser says. “Actually, it’s healthier for him if you don’t.”

“I – I don’t _all_ the time.”

“Yes you do,” Fubuki says.

“Not when…” He has to cast his mind back further than he would like, but eventually he hits on it. “Not when you were trying to form an idol unit with Asuka.”

Kaiser: “When you what.”

“Oh, didn’t I mention that? In our second year, Chronos wanted to start an idol course. Naturally Asuka and I, as the darlings of Obelisk Blue, were the obvious choice for its figureheads.”

“I can’t imagine she agreed.”

“We dueled over it and, sadly, she won.” Fubuki flops miserably sideways. “The music world lost a king and queen when it lost Bucky and Asuryn.”

“What I mean,” Manjoume says, “is that I didn’t enable that plan of his.”

“Only because I was up against Asuka.”

Point, but he isn’t willing to concede that. (At least in front of Ryo.) “It’s a precedent.”

“Not a very convincing one.”

“Just keep it in mind, Manjoume,” says Kaiser. “He needs to be told no sometimes.”

Fubuki jabs Ryo in the thigh. “And who says no to _you_?”

“My physician, mostly.”

“In social situations.”

“What kind?”

“Don’t be difficult, Ryo.”

“You’ve always been the difficult one, as I remember.”

“You know,” Fubuki says, head tipped back against the couch cushions, “I’d say no to you, if you asked.”

Ryo looks at Fubuki. Fubuki looks at Ryo. Manjoume, on the fringe of a conversation he lacks the history for, looks at his hands fisted in his lap.

“That won’t be necessary,” Kaiser says at last. “I don’t take those kinds of risks any more.”

Manjoume speaks before thinking. “The day before yesterday, I caught you making a coffee that wasn’t decaf.”

A silence opens up after his words. Kaiser’s expression doesn’t spell out betrayal, like he’d been expecting, but something he can’t quite read.

“See,” says Fubuki, “you haven’t changed. You’ve always needed someone to talk you down from things.”

“We were supposed to be speaking about you.”

“No, we weren’t.” Fubuki springs to his feet. “I’m going to call Edo. Both of you better be free for our soiree.”

Ryo watches him leave, frowning in a way that seems to furrow his entire face. He radiates a different kind of silence from usual, something abyssal instead of stoic, and Manjoume hates it. Desperately, he searches for something to say.

“You two seem as close as ever.”

“I should thank you,” Kaiser says abruptly, “for being there for him when I couldn’t.”

“Huh?” Manjoume blinks, processes the fact he’s being praised by _Kaiser Ryo_ – not for his dueling, but still – and scrambles for a response. “Um, I don’t think he needed it.”

“Fubuki needs people more than anyone else I know.”

“Oh.”

“I thought he wouldn’t have anyone at Academia after I left, besides Asuka. So I’m glad he made at least one friend.”

Manjoume wants to argue, to say that Fubuki is the most personable human he’s ever met, that he has no trouble drawing others to him like a magnet. Like he himself had been pulled in – maybe, even, like Ryo once had been too. But there’s no fight in him, not after this morning. He wants to ask about the Fubuki who had sat opposite him at lunch, profoundly unsmiling, newly unfamiliar, eyes older than he’d ever seen them, but the words wither on his tongue.

“To be honest, he did me the favour,” Manjoume says, looking at the carpet so he doesn’t have to look at Kaiser. “It was nothing.”

*

Manjoume’s seen his share of miracles in the last few years: being around Yuki Judai will do that to a person. And yet he still manages to be surprised when he gets a text from Fubuki, announcing that he’s managed to secure Edo’s appearance at their housewarming party, and will Manjoume Thunder hold up his end of the bargain, thank you very much.

Despondently, he shuffles over to his wardrobe. Fubuki had called tonight’s engagement a soiree, but he isn’t sure how seriously to take that. Is there supposed to be a dress code? Because Edo’s idea of casualwear is leaving his suit jacket unbuttoned, and Fubuki will take any excuse to get in costume, and Kaiser… okay, Kaiser is Kaiser, which means his usual outfit is probably fine. He re-adjusts his turtleneck, throws on a belt, and heads out into the main room.

The lights are dimmed. There’s music playing softly over the speakers. Someone’s even bothered to clear the debris off the coffee table. It’s atmospheric – and yet, all the atmosphere in the world can’t make up for the party’s attendees.

Edo is perched on the arm of the sofa, a habit Manjoume himself is prone to, yet he’s struck by the nagging desire to tell him off. He realises he’s parroting his brothers’ words, and barely manages not to spiral as he tries to come to terms. Fubuki, meanwhile, is sipping scotch through some kind of complicated contraption, head pillowed in Kaiser’s lap. He releases the straw when Manjoume arrives, swivelling to face him.

“You came.”

Manjoume casts a critical eye over whatever purple monstrosity his master is wearing, and decides not to comment. “I made a deal.”

“You did,” says Kaiser. “Sit down.”

The couch is occupied, so he chooses to take the armchair. It puts him off to the side, but that also means he doesn’t have to look at his housemates. It does, however, put Edo in his peripheral vision, every tiny movement he makes immensely distracting. He seems unusually fidgety tonight, but Manjoume can’t blame him.

Fubuki, however, seems completely relaxed. Having greeted the new arrival, he’s now vainly trying to retrieve his straw from its position. No matter how he cranes his neck or twists his head, though, it always dangles just out of his reach. After his fifth failure, he gives up and pouts at Kaiser. “Ryo, help me.”

“Use your hands.”

“I don’t want to.”

“If I do, will you admit this is a ridiculous idea?”

Despite his words, there’s no bite in Kaiser’s tone. He passes it to Fubuki anyway, and out of the corner of his eye, Manjoume sees Edo bristle.

“You like my ridiculous ideas.”

“I tolerate them. And you.”

“I’m getting a drink,” Edo announces, and stands. “Want anything, Manjoume?”

It’s so uncharacteristic that he can’t even bring himself to take the offer. “I’ll come with.”

Edo, strangely, doesn’t object. He doesn’t spare a glance back until he’s almost finished making his drink, shaking the mixing glass and turning to him.

“Are you getting something?” he asks after a moment, and it occurs to Manjoume that he’s been watching Edo mix in silence. He grabs a bottle from the fridge and cracks it, mostly for a way to occupy himself. Edo pours his own drink into the appropriate glass, turning to him as he impales an olive with a little too much force to be natural.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Manjoume remarks, sipping at the beer he plans to nurse for the rest of the evening. “Everything alright?”

Edo fixes him with a gaze he can’t quite read, and Manjoume realises – not for the first time – just how tired Edo always is. It had taken a few days of working for him to actually understand, because Edo bore the weight of his regimen with a smile and never betrayed his exhaustion. It hadn’t been until he’d witnessed Edo train through the evening, drawing his own blood with the sheer force of his will to fight, that he’d truly noticed it. It’s what animates him, makes his eyes burn bluer than anyone’s; he wears that exhaustion the same way Manjoume wears his family name, a driving force he’ll never quite manage to reconcile himself to.

He drinks again, before looking towards the living area, where Kaiser’s head is visible over the back of the couch. “You’ve had an admirable season, Edo. Your match against Shishiwakamaru was the best play I’ve seen in the pro league in years.” He pauses for a moment. “Since you started using your real deck, your duels are awe inspiring.”

This whole thing is embarrassing, and not even in a meaningful way; there are few people he can be honest or vulnerable around, and Edo is definitely not among them, so he waits for the inevitable backlash. When it doesn’t come, he turns to Edo with raised eyebrows, and finds him staring, eyes softer than he’s used to.

“You’ve been fairly successful yourself. I don’t think anyone’s risen so swiftly through the ranks since… well, since I did.” He raises his glass, which is closer to empty than full already, but the sentiment remains. “I look forward to having you as my rival on the field. You’re a credit to the league.”

Manjoume can feel himself flush under the praise, chest swelling with pride. He fumbles for a graceful response, a way to accept the compliment without fawning, but Edo beats him to it.

“How long has Ryo known Fubuki?”

His thank-you catches behind his teeth. Casting his mind back, he tries to remember if it’d ever come up; if, between advising him on matters of the heart, and all the other nonsense that occurred during their time at Duel Academia, Fubuki had once mentioned Kaiser in more than passing. He grabs at the first memory he has about it – Asuka, when her brother had still been in hospital, telling him they entered the school already friends.

“At least since before their first year at Duel Academia,” he says, hoping the words are more confident than he feels. Edo presses his lips together and finishes his drink, turning to prepare another quickly.

“I see,” he says, shaking and pouring the martini before taking up the glass. “Let’s go back?”

Manjoume nods, and follows his lead. There’s an uneasy feeling curling low in his stomach after that conversation – no, he’s been uneasy all day. Fubuki’s arrival should have restored equilibrium, not left him even more adrift in the house he’s supposed to own.

As they settle back into the lounge, taking up their previous positions, Manjoume glances at the other two. Fubuki is looking up at Kaiser, eyes wide and sweet and sparkling.

“Play with my hair, Ryo.”

Kaiser smiles fondly at him, but still shakes his head. But Fubuki doesn’t take no for an answer, wriggling his head into his lap, physically taking his hand and placing it on his hair, even pleading, until Ryo relents. He closes his eyes as Kaiser cards his fingers through his hair, untangling knots as he finds them. He burrows deeper and mumbles something affectionate that Manjoume can’t make out.

“I’m used to it. You used to make me do this when you were first learning to surf, remember,” Kaiser says, and for a moment Manjoume finds himself caught up in the deft movements of Kaiser’s fingers, knowing and deliberate as they work the hair smooth. It reminds him of watching Fubuki tie a braid before going in the water, nimble and precise. He’s wondering if Asuka taught Fubuki how to do that, or if it had been the other way around, when he realises people are talking to him.

“Manjoume?”

His master watches him with curious eyes, head turned onto his cheek so he can look out at him. Manjoume frowns.

“What? I was zoning out.”

“Ryo asked if you were feeling confident about your match tomorrow,” Edo cuts in, his tongue a little too sharp. “I do hope you’ll actually be present for the duel. If you space out on the day, it’ll be a waste of everyone’s time.”

Edo’s brand of constructive criticism would be difficult to take, if he hadn’t spent two weeks crushed under it. But for all that passive-aggression, Manjoume had won the first time, so he raises his chin. “Afraid I’ll win and be three victories from taking you on for the title?”

Fubuki whistles. “That’s the spirit, Manjoume!”

“Nothing like that,” Edo says, completely ignoring the interruption. Manjoume notes with interest the way Ryo’s gaze is fixed upon Edo. “It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed watching someone duel. I have faith your match won’t disappoint.” His tone is less harsh, and he almost certainly softened thinking of Judai. It’s understandable; Manjoume thinks often of all the things he lost after graduation, Judai’s passionate duels chief among them.

As if reading his mind, Fubuki chimes in once more. “Best duel I’ve seen in months was from Judai, over in Norway. He agreed to take on three opponents at once and he was grinning the whole time. They were on a _rooftop._ ”

Everyone in the room is interested in where Judai was, try as some might to pretend they aren’t. Ryo looks at Fubuki, unable to hide his shock.

“You saw Judai?”

Fubuki sits up, stretching his arms above his head and settling into the couch more. “We ran into each other and spent a week travelling together.” He pauses. “How come the Red dorm got a cat? All we had in Blue was impressionable first-years.”

“I didn’t know about that,” Ryo says, frowning. Manjoume glances at Edo, who is so clearly listening to the exchange that it’s ridiculous. He squints, and Edo turns his face away.

Fubuki beams. “Woe is the life of Marufuji Ryo, who never replies to the messages of his most bosom companion. Forgive me for not updating you on everyone I encounter.” His tone is easy, playful, but there’s a sting to his words which hits its target. Something in Manjoume’s stomach twists at the open declaration of their bond. Edo downs his drink.

“Ryo’s been working very hard on his league. I think we can all forgive a little forgetfulness when it comes to responding to texts,” Edo says, tone familiar. “He’s an old man, after all. Maybe he never learned how.”

Fubuki flutters a hand vaguely. “Nonsense. I’m older than he is, that’s not an excuse.”

“By _one_ day, Fubuki.”

“Well, you know what it is they say about Rome.”

“That all roads lead there?” says Manjoume.

“That you should do as the Romans do?” says Kaiser.

“That it wasn’t built in a day?” says Edo.

Fubuki flips himself victoriously in Kaiser’s lap. “Right. A single day isn’t anything.”

“You should be kinder on the Kaiser,” Manjoume says, to break the tension of the moment as much as to include himself in the conversation. “I, for one, have always admired him. He was our school’s ace for a reason..”

“Thank you,” Kaiser says with sincerity, and pauses. “I _am_ sorry for being so distant and unresponsive, however.” For a moment, the hint of what can only be described as a boyish smile crosses his face. “Did you ever think we’d get to live together again, Fubuki? I remember how excited you were when we were assigned dorms first year.”

“It’s late,” Edo cuts in, when Fubuki and Kaiser share a tender glance. He stands, his hand tracing across Kaiser’s shoulder. “I have to train in the morning. Enjoy the rest of your shindig.” He leaves before he can be convinced to stay, and Manjoume is surprised Fubuki doesn’t press the issue. Ryo watches Edo go with an expression Manjoume can’t read.

“Manjoume, help me get another drink,” Fubuki says, standing and leading the way into the kitchen. He follows his master, relieved this evening is about to be significantly less uncomfortable now that Edo has retired. He fetches a bottle from the fridge, and watches Fubuki pour both himself and Kaiser another scotch. Then Fubuki turns on him, and he feels incredibly boxed in.

“So,” he says, swirling his drink ominously, “how long have you had feelings for Ryo?”

Manjoume nearly sprays his craft beer across the kitchen. This isn’t unprecedented, coming from a self-proclaimed evangelist of love with an overly vivid imagination. But he and Kaiser share a healthy platonic bond, nothing more, and it appals him to be accused of otherwise. He needs to defend himself.

“You’ve got the wrong idea. I – I respect him as a duelist, that’s all!”

“There’s no need for euphemism, Manjoume.” Fubuki regards him slyly. “You respected my sister as a duelist as well, didn’t you?”

“Um. Not primarily?” He realises how that comes off, hurries to backpedal. “Not that she isn’t also very capable, but it wasn’t, uh – look, master, you were sixteen once too. You understand, right?”

Five seconds of deafening silence later, it occurs to him that Fubuki hadn’t exactly been in a place to nurse schoolboy crushes. There probably wasn’t much scope for pining over the girls in the Blue dorms, considering Darkness. His first instinct is to blame the alcohol, to claim he’d never have made that mistake if he hadn’t been drinking, a slip of the tongue in the spur of the moment. But he isn’t sober enough to lie to himself, either.

“Judai, then,” he says sharply, and it digs into Manjoume like a knife. “Do you respect Ryo the way you respect Judai?”

“That’s different. We’re rivals.”

“I don’t intend to undermine the passionate flames of competition, but that isn’t what I mean.”

“Fine. We _might_ , kind of, sort of, if you wanted to stand on your head and squint, be friends –”

“You can admit you were in love with him, you know. I won’t judge.”

Manjoume needs to be significantly more drunk to have this conversation, and Fubuki keeps derailing his attempts to get there. He puts his drink down, not trusting himself with it. “I,” he says, gesturing uselessly for punctuation, “no? Not at all? I like girls, master.”

“Ah.” Fubuki sounds halfway between thoughtful and self-satisfied, but his expression doesn’t lean towards either. “I see. Anyway, we were talking about Ryo. And you didn’t answer the question.”

“I did! I said I wasn’t interested.”

“That’s too bad, Manjoume. He’s a catch.”

Kaiser is, to put it mildly, everything Manjoume wants to be in a duelist. Even after destroying himself and dying and being reborn, he carries himself with a grace that matches his prowess. He could make it in any pro league in the world, if his health allowed. And yet: Fubuki’s assertion still seems like a stretch.

“Uh,” he says, “sure. Don’t get me wrong, master, I’m not against you intervening in my love life. Just… anyone but Kaiser.”

“Well, in that case, Edo’s out too. As tantalising as the idea of rivals-turned-lovers is, I don’t see any chemistry there at all. And I’m exempt, and Judai’s overseas, and don’t even _think_ about starting a long-distance affair with Asuka – actually, how do you feel about Shou?”

Manjoume massages his temples, in a vain attempt to stave off his headache. “I feel like you should suggest women.”

“It’s important to keep an open mind.”

“Not about this!”

“It’s all right. Someday you’ll understand the tempestuous and thrilling nature of a bond between men.”

His first thought, which he doesn’t voice, is that he gets plenty of tempest from Fubuki as it is. His second thought, which he does, is “Are you saying you have?”

“Well, yes. Every man should experience a secret love that never comes true at least once.”

“I don’t see what one thing has to do with the other.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to,” Fubuki says, and scoops up Kaiser’s neglected glass. As bizarre as the subject material is, Manjoume still can’t shake the feeling he’s failed some kind of test. “We should get back to Ryo. He’s probably pining.”

Kaiser’s on his phone when they return, but at least has the courtesy to put it away immediately. Fubuki curls contentedly into himself at the opposite end of the couch; Manjoume, once again, takes the armchair.

Fubuki’s foot extends to nudge the Kaiser’s thigh softly. “Edo okay?”

Kaiser Ryo isn’t the type to get embarrassed, but his cheeks take on a distinct rosiness. “He’s fine. Dramatic as ever.” Then he swiftly changes the subject. “Do you have anything new planned for the duel tomorrow?”

Manjoume is relieved for the normalcy the question allows, and begins to explain his newest strategy: he’s made the decision to merge the cards he got from Academia North into his core deck, and included some new support. It’s easy, to explain his thought process and the path he sees to victory, and having Kaiser Ryo enraptured by his dueling prowess is something he never thought he’d experience. That alone is more than he’d hoped for from this situation.

But when he glances over, Fubuki’s eyes are inscrutable. They’re almost black in the low light, betraying nothing, a perfect and unnatural stillness. Edo is a familiar variable and Ryo moves along a predictable axis, but it occurs to Manjoume that he understands very little else. The Fubuki of his school days is overlaid by the Fubuki who went on a gap year is overlaid by the Fubuki he met today, probably for the first time, all as real as each other.

He wants to look at him straight-on, to consolidate those images back into one. But the double vision makes his head swim and, in the moment, he can’t help but look away.


	3. Chapter 3

The thing Edo had failed to take into account, when agreeing to attend Manjoume’s duel, was that this would be viewed as the reigning prince of the duel world making an appearance at his rival’s high-profile match – and that this wouldn’t be taken lightly. He’ll be photographed, at the very least, fodder for every tabloid and duel magazine, and that requires deliberation. He stares at length at the clothes he reserves for occasions that need him to be circumspect: pieces with high collars, hoods, turtlenecks and the like, all in darker colours. Manjoume deserves to have the spotlight to himself tonight, but there are limits to his attempts at discretion. Especially with Ryo at his side, a wholly unsubtle, easily recognisable person of interest, fading into the crowd is an unlikely outcome.

He settles for his trademark white suit, opting for a soft navy turtleneck in place of his usual button-down. Leaning into the casual look, he rolls his sleeves as he leaves his bedroom. Ryo is sitting at the dining table, writing notes into a small book; Edo knows it’s something for his recovery, doesn’t care to ask. He approaches, lets his hand drift to Ryo’s shoulder and squeeze.

“Ready to go?” 

Ryo doesn’t frighten easily, but Edo can tell he wasn’t supposed to see this. A not-insignificant part of him wants to push Ryo to talk, to figure out where they stand. Their past is convoluted, and entwined beyond repair, but only now that it’s the past; living together had demanded vulnerability, venerated it. It had kept them human and alive, their bond the only certain thing in a deeply uncertain world. He knows missing those days can’t be healthy, but it’s hard not to compare them favourably to this perpetual impasse.

Deceptively little time has passed since they first met, and yet it seems like an age. Surely Ryo feels as divorced from the person who faced Edo’s Elemental Heroes, the Kaiser of Duel Academia still in his school uniform, as Edo does from the young pro who preached about destiny and played his role as a pawn without hesitation. 

Reenacting their first encounter on their first night as housemates, turns and cards falling perfectly in order, had stirred something in Edo he’d almost managed to forget was there. Watching the duel they’d mimicked, alone in his room later that evening, he could barely see himself in the boy in the video, toying needlessly with Kaiser Ryo’s ace.

Every time he speaks to Ryo, he’s unsure where they’ll end up. Some moments are easy, recalling the steps they’d danced together in that far-away mansion, but others feel stiff, unfamiliar. He’s unsure what he wants from Ryo, now that they have all the freedom they could desire, and it has to be mutual. Glancing aside to allow Ryo privacy, Edo can’t help but resent the chasm that lies between them, a distance that only grows with every attempt at intimacy, common ground always just out of reach. They’ve walked this path before, and having to learn how to navigate it again feels like a wound above his heart.

“Are we getting a car?” Ryo asks, standing. 

“I called for it already. It’s downstairs.” 

He waits for Ryo to leave the apartment, and then follows suit, flicking off the lights. The silence drags every second out to an eternity, their steps deafeningly loud as they echo in the hallway. It’s a relief when the elevator arrives, and they step inside together.

“Fubuki said he’ll meet us there. The trains were running late, so he decided to stay in the city rather than come back,” Ryo says. 

“Wonderful.” Edo jabs the button for the ground floor a little too sharply. He doesn’t have the will to fake enthusiasm, unaware their new housemate had been invited. He can’t recall ever speaking to Tenjoin Fubuki in more than passing before moving in together, and despite exhaustive attempts to discover why he and Ryo have such a deep bond, he’s come up with nothing. Fubuki seems to be, for all intents and purposes, the exact brand of obnoxious he knows Ryo can’t stand. 

The doors close, and Edo turns to Ryo once they begin their descent, searching desperately for small talk to disrupt the quiet. Ideally something that won’t spark an argument, given their destination. Ryo beats him to it.

“That colour suits you.” 

Edo only lets himself be surprised by the compliment for half a second. “Thank you. You don’t look terrible today, yourself.”

Matching grins catch between them, and Edo laughs softly and turns away.    
He thinks: he won’t ever tire of seeing him smile.    
He thinks: Fubuki makes Ryo smile in a different way, and it’s softer than this.   
He thinks: he should change the subject.

“I haven’t had a chance to watch Manjoume duel in person in a while,” he says, watches the smile fade from Ryo’s face. “Not since he won our match.” 

“Shou and I were at Kaiba Stadium for a sponsorship meet, and caught the tail end of his loss in August. He’s improved significantly since  _ I _ last saw him fight.” 

“When was that, again?”

“His first year at Academia. Against his brother.” Ryo hums thoughtfully. “I remember thinking he’d already come very far. I wonder if he’ll ever reach his limit.”

Edo wants to remark that searching for limits that don’t exist was Ryo’s downfall the first time, but like any strategist worth his salt, he can see two moves ahead, and that path is too rocky to navigate. He’d like to have a pleasant day out, and having Ryo at his side only adds to that desire, so he settles for building Manjoume up, instead, since he isn’t here to make him regret it. 

“I don’t think anyone capable of beating me has a limit to his potential.” He smirks at Ryo as the elevator dings at the ground floor. “I certainly don’t.” 

*

The ride to the stadium is uneventful, their conversation mostly small talk to pass the time. Edo texts Manjoume to let him know they’ll be there if he’d like to meet up, and as an afterthought, wishes him luck. The message shows it’s been read almost immediately, and he locks his phone. 

Free entry for members of the league is standard, and Edo’s top billing gets Ryo in at his side, and he immediately takes him by the arm and leads him towards the food stands. 

“I covered entry, so you’re buying snacks.” 

“That seems unbalanced.” 

“Nacho fries, Ryo. And a diet cola.” He needles him until he gives in, watches him order and pay from a distance. He manages to go unbothered, aside from the occasional smile or wave at a young child who recognises him. That is, up until Ryo is on his way back, when a hand snakes out and grabs his arm.

“Edo Phoenix! Can I get a photo?” 

He turns to look at the man, and forces a polite smile. “Of course,” he replies, stepping closer. An arm curls around his waist and he smiles into the camera pleasantly, signs the paper pushed towards him. He’s thanked hastily as the man bustles away. When he looks up, he finds Ryo almost smiling.

“What?” 

“Nothing. It’s just amusing.”

“Some of us are actually liked by the public.” 

Ryo rolls his eyes. Edo takes a fry and eats it.

“Let’s find seats. We can go up to the box if you want.” 

Ryo looks to be considering it for a moment, then shakes his head. “Can we sit arena-side? Fubuki won’t be able to get into the members’ area.” 

Edo bites back the reply he wants to give in favour of nodding, and walks in front of Ryo to snare seats nearest where Manjoume will be. He sits, takes his fries when his companion joins him, asks if he’d like any. Ryo declines, of course, but he had to offer.

Packed so close together, Edo’s shoulder brushes against Ryo’s. He can smell Ryo’s cologne, something musky that lingers against his palate, and even here there’s something safe and comforting to it. The lights dim to prepare for the entrance displays, and Edo watches from the corner of his eye as Ryo shifts his coat onto the seat on his other side. It’s dark, dark enough that they won’t be observed by the general public, dark enough to ignore any questioning looks he might receive, and Edo considers dropping his head onto his shoulder for so long it’s ridiculous.

Deciding to bite the bullet, he shifts in his seat, tilting his head to the side to ease his way. He makes contact and then, just as quickly, loses it – Ryo’s body jerks forward, grabbed by some unseen assailant. In the dim light, he sees Tenjoin Fubuki, in a black shirt emblazoned with a  _ glow-in-the-dark _ lightning bolt and the number 10,000. He plunks himself into the adjacent seat, and tugs Ryo into a clumsy embrace. 

Edo sits up straighter, adjusts his jacket. Absolutely does not curl his lip.

“You made it,” Fubuki says, releasing him.

“I’m more surprised you did,” Ryo answers, with the half-smile he reserves specifically for his oldest friend. “Considering your sense of direction.”

“Well, I did step out one evening and get lost for two years.”

“Fubuki.”

“Fine.” It must be an old argument, because he drops it immediately and leans forward. Ryo visibly relaxes. “These seats aren’t half bad, though. We’ll definitely be able to see Manjoume.”

Edo could be in a private box right now, alone with his thoughts, his fries, and Ryo. “Manjoume will definitely be able to see us, too,” he says, gesturing at Fubuki’s shirt, which reflects enough light that it should be considered a hazard. “Did you make that yourself?”

“I had to buy it online. That’s a good idea, though! Maybe for his next duel?”

Ryo makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a cough. Edo takes this as permission to cut in, refusing to let the conversation go.

“I’m sure he’d be flattered.”

“I could make us matching shirts,” Fubuki says, half to himself. “And paint Man-Jou-Me on them. I’d have to wear the Man one, obviously, for the joke, but I’d let you two choose between the others.”

“I’m sure we can resolve it peacefully. How do you feel about glow-in-the-dark face paint?”

“Careful, or I’ll end up putting you in charge.” He fixes Edo with his most innocent, pleading look. “Can I have one of your fries?”

Fubuki would be an infinitely less frustrating presence if Edo could work out whether or not he’s a genuine idiot. He’d be palatable if he was, and he’d be palatable if he was on their level. As it is, though, he bounces between extremes so fast it makes him oddly unreadable, and Edo can only express his uncertainty as disdain. “I paid for these.”

“No, you didn’t,” Ryo says, fixing him with a look. Edo isn’t particularly interested in his input, right now, and focuses on swirling a fry in salsa instead.

“You should’ve bought  _ me _ fries, Ryo.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I was too busy battling my way through the crowd.”

Edo bites the chip neatly in half. “You should’ve gotten here earlier.”

“Probably.” Fubuki’s tone is mild. “Hey, help me unfold this sign?”

In the commotion of Fubuki’s general existence, Edo’s somehow managed to miss the piece of rolled-up black cardboard he’s holding. Only years of dealing with the intolerable gives him the strength not to press his fingers to his temples.

Ryo takes an end, and the two of them unfurl it together. The slogan isn’t as bad as he’d been expecting:  _ Thunder’s #1(0) Fan. _ Still, he’s definitely not pleased to be seen with something so gaudy and gratuitous – not that he had expected better aesthetic sense in the first place.

Fubuki catches him staring. “Get it,” he says, “because –”

“Got it.” He has to tell himself not to sneer, and smiles placidly instead. Fubuki returns a beam of his own, and Edo can’t tell if he genuinely thinks he’s being charming. He tries to look disinterested as Fubuki takes the sign from Ryo and holds it straight, and it’s then, the arena lights fading in with a distinct green hue, that Edo falters in his act. Ryo’s eyes are locked on the field in an instant, narrowing as he evaluates the performance by the duelist Manjoume will be facing, and Edo can practically see the thoughts racing through his head. His eyes are alive, and the green light glitters in their depths.

Edo drops his hand from the armrest, letting it rest against Ryo’s thigh. If Fubuki can touch Ryo all he likes, then so can he. He returns the small smirk Ryo shoots his way, takes it as permission to leave his hand there. He glances out to watch Manjoume’s opposition walk on, wrapped head-to-toe in plants, accompanied by the auditory nightmare of a glam rock/jungle-sound mashup. He uses the walk on as an opportunity to jab Ryo’s thigh with his pinky finger, sticking his tongue out when he glares. Then thunder crashes above their heads, and the whole arena is cast into darkness. 

Purple smoke begins to rise from the floor, the only light in the stadium, before the sound of lightning striking, a sharp, bright flash: once, twice, again. Edo knows from experience what Manjoume’s preparation must look like right now, double-checking his stance, his mark, while his manager barks orders into a headpiece. He doesn’t miss the days of still establishing his routine. 

Fubuki cheers loudly at Ryo’s side as Manjoume comes into view, accompanied by more rolling thunder. The strobes work to illuminate him from the feet up, alternating angles, before there’s so much smoke in the air that only Manjoume’s silhouette is visible, cut cleanly by his distinctive coat. His right hand points skyward, and a hush falls over the crowd. 

“One.” He starts, alone, voice echoing through the microphone. He’s been coached through the performance, but Edo can see the way his shoulders heave, remembers how that exhilaration tastes. On Ryo’s other side, Fubuki is so far forward in his seat he could fall from the edge. 

“Ten.” The sheer force behind his voice wins Edo over, he catches himself holding his breath. He’s always so busy, he can’t be sure when he was last on this side of a pro duel, and all at once he remembers why he used to frequent them in his early days on the circuit. His heart pounds in his chest, and he’s leaning forward despite himself. He can feel the way Manjoume must feel, excitement and nerves twisted together, the crowd anticipating his next move. Manjoume is good at this, has earned the audience and the drama of it all. Edo can hardly wait for his next chance to face him on the field, his first worthy adversary in a long time.

Manjoume’s volume increases as he continues his chant. The stadium hangs on his every word. “Hundred… Thousand…”

The smoke around him has nearly dissipated. Lights flick on dramatically to illuminate him as he yells his name, the call and response raucous. 

“Manjoume!”

“Thunder!”

The sound effects play once more as they repeat, Fubuki’s voice clear in his ears as he yells his support for a moment too long. When the house lights come back on, Manjoume is clearly trying not to grin too widely. Duel disk at the ready, he assumes his stance, and the countdown begins. 

They watch Manjoume win the coin toss, electing to take first turn. He turns to Ryo as the crowd’s applause slowly winds down. “You ever miss it?”  He knows Ryo doesn’t participate in the league with his brother, and it keeps him too busy to enter tournaments as well. 

Ryo looks at him for a moment, eyes lit by the familiar fervour he’d wielded against Johan, a hunger for victory worth crossing dimensions for. “Sometimes.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Would you join again, if you didn’t have your own?” 

Ryo pauses. “I don’t know that I could.” 

He turns away, glancing at their companion. Edo shrugs, leaning forward to look around him. “What about you, Fubuki? Thinking of taking on your student in the league?” 

“Me?” Fubuki arches his eyebrows. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“Think of the headlines,” Edo says. “Ten versus ten thousand. Student versus master.”

“Believe me, I have.”

He’s admittedly never seen Fubuki duel, but any former Obelisk Blue could, at the very least, make it as an amateur. And, if the stories of Fubuki and Ryo being neck-and-neck at the top of their grade are true, he could go much further. Potential like that doesn’t just disappear, so why is he being so evasive about his professional prospects? Manjoume and his opponent have fired their opening salvos, and Edo’s done with pleasantries too. He decides to push a little harder.

“Surely you’d be an asset to any league. I’m surprised Ryo hasn’t tried to recruit you into his.”

Fubuki’s expression shifts to something more closed-off, and Edo mentally revises his estimate of his housemate’s intelligence; he seems to understand that they aren’t strictly on the same side, which is more than Ryo does. “I –”

“Drop it,” Ryo cuts in, turning to him. “We’re here to watch Manjoume.”

It was obvious who Ryo would side with, considering their history, but it still stings. Edo schools the hurt from his face. “I was being sociable.”

“It’s –”

“It’s a fair question.” Fubuki turns his attention back to the duel arena, bangs obscuring his eyes. Manjoume’s opponent has just set two cards, but it’s obvious he’s bluffing. “He’s within his rights to wonder why I haven’t gone pro yet.”

“Is he.”

“Well, yes. We don’t know each other very well.”

Ryo frowns, and it occurs to Edo that this is probably an argument. A more subtle one than expected, given their personalities, but it betrays the cracks in their friendship. It’s more vindicating than he’d care to admit, to learn things aren't picture-perfect between them.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like nothing.” In front of them, Manjoume makes a particularly bold move, baiting his opponent into an attack and then flipping one of his trap cards, and Fubuki’s on his feet in an instant. “THUNDER!”

Manjoume visibly stiffens, voice catching mid-sentence, then squares his shoulders and keeps going. Ryo hauls his best friend back into his seat.

“We’re not done.”

“Done with what?”

“It isn’t like you to be this roundabout.”

“With all due respect, Ryo,” Fubuki says pleasantly, glancing back, “how would you know?”

The stadium is loud, ringing with cheers for both Manjoume and his opponent, but in that instant the world goes deathly silent. Ryo looks like he’s been slapped, but Fubuki’s gaze slides past him to land on Edo, as if he’s only just remembered they have company. And Edo’s never been more certain that Fubuki is Ryo’s equal: there’s no way he could inflict a wound that deliberate otherwise.

“Don’t,” Ryo says softly. “Not here.”

Just like that, Fubuki is enthralled by the duel again. “Don’t worry. I’ve already forgotten it.”

There’s a sour taste in Edo’s mouth. He looks down at his fries, suddenly not hungry at all. He pushes one on the tray, before he realises the distraction he’s looking for is directly in front of him: Manjoume’s just brought out his ace, chained a three-spell combo, and is primed to take down his opponent next turn. He’s about to say something incisive, but snaps his jaw shut when Fubuki mutters something indistinct, and Ryo’s shoulders tense up. 

He looks up when Ryo stands, pulling his coat over his arms. “I’m going to get some air,” he says tersely, eyes flicking sharply to Fubuki. 

Edo grabs for his wrist, catching his fingers instead. “Manjoume has him on the ropes.” 

Ryo pulls out of his grasp, tugging the lapels of his coat forward. He turns to glance out onto the duel arena. “He’s already won. I’m going to get some air,” he says again, and stalks off before Edo can decide how to respond. He can’t tell if Ryo is angry, or frustrated, or upset, or some combination of all three, and it reminds him of the Herculean task of emotional labour that came with being around Hell Kaiser. There’d been something thrilling in needling his way into arguments with Ryo when he was like that, when his words were sharp and cruel, every move calculated, but now it exhausts him. He spent more time with Hell Kaiser than anybody; he wonders if he could do anything more to help now than he’d managed to back then. 

He watches him until he’s out of his line of sight, and slowly turns back to Fubuki. His hands are gripping his sign a little too hard, making the cardboard crease, but otherwise he looks unbothered. Edo stares, appraising him cautiously, unsure what to make of the situation. He knows nothing about Fubuki outside of his name, his sister, and Ryo, and yet, a seat away from him, he feels an obligation to push once more.

“What was –” 

Manjoume lands his final blow to tremendous uproar, and half the stadium leaps to their feet. Fubuki is among them, nearly pitching himself from the banister as he joins the chorus of cheers for Manjoume. Edo stands and sees Manjoume glance their way, something searching and uncertain in his face despite his victory. He manages to grant him an approving smile, before leaning over to Fubuki. 

“I’m going to find Ryo,” he says in his ear, repeating himself when Fubuki looks at him blankly. Either he doesn’t care or doesn’t hear him, the second time, and Edo can’t find it in him to bother for a third. He sets off in the same direction as Ryo, pushing his way through to the aisle.

With the match just ended, he’s ducking and weaving around people, keeping his head low. He swears somebody calls his name as he passes and tells himself he didn’t hear it, walking faster. He’s not sure if Ryo particularly wants to be followed, knows he definitely isn’t going to want to discuss it – not with him, anyway – but he can only take being an accessory to the conversation for so long, and nobody’s going to give him answers unless he drags them out himself.

At worst, Ryo will tell him to drop it, and he won’t. At best, there’s a scenario that doesn’t end with them being even less familiar than before. He spots Ryo’s hair over the crowd, out on the terrace. He dodges through the cluster of people between them, ignoring another cry of his name, and closes the door behind him. 

The air is cold out here, biting at his cheeks immediately. For a moment, he’s concerned for Ryo’s health, but pushes the thought back: nobody’s more acutely aware of his condition than Ryo himself. He squares his shoulders, breathing in and moving to stand at Ryo’s side, curling his hands around the railing and staring forward in the same direction. They’re on the west side of the building, overlooking the trees that shroud the park nearby. Edo’s spent more time in this stadium than most places he can think of, used to climb from the third-floor balcony to hide among the trees when he wanted to be alone. 

He thinks about telling Ryo as much, and immediately changes his mind. It’s too raw, too honest. Too real, given how little of their history is actually tangible. He feels Ryo looking at him, but manages to fight down the temptation to meet his eyes. Somewhere, within walking distance, his name is carved into the trunk of one of those trees. It’s maybe the only real proof he’d ever been here at all.

“Did he tell you to come after me?” 

Edo frowns. “Fubuki? No.” 

“Hm.” 

He glances over. “Do you wish he had?”

Ryo says nothing. Edo releases the bar, turns to rest against it, tries to come off flippant. “What was all that about? Seemed like an old wound.” No response again, which, given how many times they’ve played this game, means he’s right. “Fine. Don’t tell me.” He folds his arms and casts his eye over the people inside the building, some of whom are very pointedly  _ not _ watching them. He assumes it’s quite the source of gossip, the prince of the duel world speaking privately with the founder of the Marufuji League. He waits. 

A full minute passes before Ryo breaks the silence. “Sometime in our first few months at Duel Academia, Fubuki tried to see if our friendship would survive if he didn’t talk so much.” His words are carefully chosen, hesitant. “The way he phrased it, he felt like the only reason we got along any more was because he would talk and talk and insert himself into my life. And that if he were to step back, I wouldn’t pull my weight.” 

Edo thinks that’s a fair assumption, given how Ryo is, but remains tight-lipped. He nods minutely.

“But that isn’t how it works. When your best friend stops greeting you in the morning and saving you a seat in class, one day, you don’t assume you’re supposed to pick up the slack. I was sure he’d finally gotten sick of me.” He pauses. “We aren’t exactly the most compatible people. After a few days, one of our classmates – one of our  _ friends _ – stepped in. Fujiwara made us sit down together and talk it out, even though Fubuki insisted that was cheating. But he still ended up explaining what he’d been trying to do, and when I told him I wouldn’t know what he wanted if he didn’t tell me… he just laughed. Laughed, and said that was what he’d expected to hear.” 

The name Fujiwara doesn’t mean anything, but now isn’t the time to ask. Edo tries to remember if he’s ever heard Ryo speak for so long before, and comes up blank. Ryo stares at a gnarled stump of a fallen tree, and a small, bitter smile crosses his lips. “He knew me well enough to know I didn’t know  _ him _ , even then.” 

Edo’s mind races through possibilities as he tries to decide how to respond. He settles quickly on something that feels entirely unsafe, but hopefully correct.

“You should have tried to prove him wrong, then.” He’s no expert on friendship, and despite Ryo having more long-term relationships, Edo still feels more qualified on the matter. He thinks of Judai and, strangely, Manjoume. “Taken it as a challenge.” 

“I didn't get much of a chance. He went missing a few months later.”

He’s never heard about this directly, only pieced things together from passing comments. He thinks he’d be more helpful if Ryo had even once felt the need to share with him, and forces the bitterness back down, well aware he wouldn’t be any better at being supportive even if he knew the full story. 

He pauses until he feels safe to speak, Ryo staring contemplatively into the forest in the meantime. “I practically grew up in this building,” he says, meeting Ryo’s eyes. “DD had an apartment on the next block, and I lived there, even though he was always out of town. I was already junior champion, so the staff here knew me and liked having me around.” He feels wide open, exposed and weak, and has to swallow back the instinct to retreat and recoup his losses.

“I used to hide in that park, when I had fantasies about running away, still. I had a whole cache of supplies I built up over a few months – canned food, a torch and batteries, a tent. I stashed them in a hollowed-out log, maybe ten minutes away from the path, maybe fifteen. I can’t count the number of times I slipped away and started setting up my campsite, only to be found almost immediately.” He pauses. “I think I just wanted to know someone would come looking for me. To feel like somebody would care if I went missing.” 

“So one day, I climbed a tree instead, one close to the building. I think after a few times, the novelty of being missed wasn’t enough. I remember, for some reason, being fixated on hearing what they said about me when I wasn’t there. When they weren’t being  _ interviewed _ about me, or trying to sell me as a commodity.” He squeezes his thumb in his other hand anxiously. “And they came looking, like they always did. I think I was eleven. So there I was, perched five metres above the ground, and while I was waiting, I used a pocket knife I’d stolen from Saio to carve my name into the trunk. I made it through my given name and half of my family’s, and then heard voices, and stopped to hear what they’d say.” 

He’s so aware of Ryo watching him, it takes physical will to keep talking. “It was Saio and my agent at the time, and Saio asked how long I’d been gone, and then said something about giving me ten more minutes to play out my melodrama.” He glances out to the trees again. “I guess I made the leaves move when I got upset by that, because they looked up and saw me, and I lost my balance and fell. I got twelve stitches in my arm where I ripped it open on the way down. Saio kept telling me how concerned he’d been, and made me promise never to run away again, but he’d sucked all the appeal out of it anyway. I knew he didn’t take me seriously, and I think, from then on, all I wanted was for him to do that again.”

Ryo is staring at him, with an expression he doesn’t recognise, something gentle and open in it. Acceptance, maybe. Edo seizes his chance to both deflect from his admission, and return to the topic at hand, but Ryo speaks first.

“I’ve seen that scar.”

Edo knows he must have, but it still makes him feel exposed to learn he’d noticed; Ryo’s not someone who keeps quiet about his observations. But he doesn’t want to talk about that, not now. He fixes his gaze on the park in front of him, but it’s so much less green than Ryo’s eyes. 

“It seems like you and Fubuki care a lot about each other. Be a shame to let one snide comment get between you.” He shrugs, and narrows his eyes with a slight grin. “Besides, you let him have the last word. That’s not like you.” 

Ryo’s lips twitch, and his hand comes to cover Edo’s, squeezing lightly. Edo can feel his pulse quicken as it lingers, skin to skin. “Then we’d better go back inside. Manjoume is probably irritated we aren’t there to congratulate him.” But neither of them makes any move to do so. The air is cool, but Ryo is warm, and there’s a different heat in Edo’s chest; it’s fueled by the safety he feels here, their vulnerabilities laid out between them. 

The moment is broken when Ryo coughs, and it’s so harsh that Edo is reminded of his initial concerns. He pulls his hand away and pushes Ryo towards the door. “Stupid of me to assume you’d make a rational decision about your health. Let’s go find Manjoume,” he mutters, masking his concern. He grabs for Ryo’s wrist as a way to lead him, and tries not to think about the way Ryo takes his hand instead. He walks at his side as they head for the dressing rooms, where they both know from experience Manjoume will be waiting. 

Fubuki’s already there when they arrive, Manjoume enthusiastically recapping the events of the duel for him, but it’s obvious he isn’t really listening. His eyes catch Edo’s over his student’s shoulder, skate down to their joined hands. Ryo lets go like he’s been burned, just as Manjoume turns to face them.

“Kaiser. Edo.” He looks like he’s warring with himself, and then blurts out, “What did you think?”

“You don’t need me to tell you, Manjoume.” The words are softened by Ryo’s faint amusement.

“Or me,” Edo says. “This victory cemented your promotion next season, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. Even if I lose both my next duels – which I won’t – I’m safely in the top three. I hope you’re ready for our rematch, Edo.”

He’s  _ been  _ ready, ever since he lost in the first place. Even in the upper echelons of the pro league, a lot of his duels still feel rote; he’s very rarely pushed out of his comfort zone and forced to fight with everything he has. If he isn’t going to have the chance to duel Judai in serious competition, Manjoume will be a worthy replacement, so he lets himself return his grin. “Definitely.”

“We should all go out to celebrate,” Fubuki butts in, slinging an arm around Manjoume’s shoulders. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m going home,” says Ryo, and that cements Edo’s decision.

“I should as well. There are things I need to take care of.”

“Suit yourself. Then it’s just you and me, Manjoume.”

Manjoume tries to free himself from Fubuki’s grasp, but doesn’t seem to be trying very hard. “You’re still wearing your Thunder shirt, master.”

“Hm?” Fubuki looks down at himself. “Oh, so I am. Ryo, swap shirts with me.”

The thing about Ryo and Fubuki’s friendship is that Edo can’t tell if that’s a normal request. But it’s coming at a distinctly abnormal time, and he finds himself holding his breath.

“You’re going to nag me until I do, aren’t you.”

“Something like that.”

“Fine. Let’s find somewhere to change.”

They head off together, Ryo lagging just a little behind. Edo messages his driver, then leans against the wall and looks at Manjoume, not quite sure what to say.

“I want to ask you something,” Manjoume says abruptly, sparing him the trouble. “While they’re gone.”

He’s almost certain he knows what. “Go ahead.”

“When I looked into the stands after I won, Kaiser wasn’t there. Was that –”

“He stepped outside for a moment.”

“Just as I was about to take my final turn?”

“You know how his condition is.” It’s a gentle lie, but it still feels like thorns on his tongue. He amends it, slightly. “It had nothing to do with your duel.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Manjoume says, but he doesn’t look particularly convinced. Edo knows better than to underestimate  _ Manjoume’s _ intelligence, and while he wants to empathise, he knows it’ll land flat. “I hope he’s alright.”

So does Edo. As Ryo rounds the corner on the way back, he certainly seems fine, even if his coat is buttoned all the way to the top to hide what he’s wearing underneath. Or maybe that’s just the effect of seeing him next to Fubuki, who looks awfully pleased with himself in Ryo’s turtleneck. Ryo’s also carrying a roll of cardboard, held awkwardly against his chest, apparently pestered into taking the sign home.

“So,” Fubuki says cheerfully, “ready to go?”

Manjoume shifts from foot to foot. “Where were you thinking?”

“Dinner. Maybe a bar, later, if you feel up for it.”

“I will!” he says, a little too quickly. “You can count on that, master.”

“We should leave as well, then,” Edo says. “Our car’s almost here.”

“Don’t have too much fun,” says Ryo.

“Without you?” Fubuki says. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

His tone is light, but tonight has been an object lesson in not underestimating Tenjoin Fubuki, and the barb lands. Edo grabs Ryo by the arm before he can let that sink in, tosses out a quick goodbye, and steers him out of there.

“I didn’t ask for you to help me,” Ryo says at last, in one of the twisting corridors that make up the bowels of the stadium. “Fubuki is my problem.”

“And you’re  _ my _ problem,” says Edo, suddenly exhausted, “so there.”

That seems to stun him, and they make the rest of the journey to the garage in silence. Ryo’s arm feels skeletal under his hand, and it raises a whole host of worries in his mind. He’s still so dreadfully thin; he can’t have put on much weight at all in the past several months, and he’s certainly been trying. But raising the spectre of his health seems like the fastest way to ruin their tentative new equilibrium, so Edo stays quiet.

He settles into the car and shifts so he can face towards Ryo. He tells the driver the address, then raises an eyebrow at his companion, who looks even more awkward than usual with his coat done up. “You know, you don’t have to hide from me. I won’t shame you for being a Thunderhead.” He laughs when Ryo glares at him, but undoes his coat regardless. 

The shirt, which had already been over-the-top on Fubuki, is absolutely ludicrous on Hell Kaiser, especially under his trademark coat. It’s a crew-neck, the design as crude as one would expect from licensed merch, and it drags Ryo from looking like a dignified twenty-something, right back into his teens. He nudges Fubuki’s sign under the seat, hoping he can manage to make Ryo forget it.

“What’s the smile for.” 

“Nothing.”

“Edo.”

“Ryo.” 

Ryo sighs, rolling his eyes. 

“You look great. You should incorporate it into your wardrobe.” 

Ryo sighs again.

“I might have to insist on adding some of my own merchandise if that happens. I can’t let Manjoume monopolise you, now.” He lets it sink in, then adds, “I think you suit The D more than Thunder.”

“If you wanted to get me out of my shirt, Edo,” Ryo says carefully, “all you had to do was ask.”

Edo pauses, taken aback. “Did you just –”

Ryo folds his arms with a smirk. “Didn’t peg you for the type who can dish it out but can’t take it.” 

“I can. I just didn’t realise you knew what flirting was, honestly,” he says, leaning back in his seat, “or that it’s still allowed at your age.” Ryo rolls his eyes and they travel in comfortable quiet, and Edo is acutely aware of the way the air they share is alight with potential. Something about the situation makes him sentimental, reminds him of the way things were in that other world. He shrugs off his jacket and puts it aside, stretching out to recline across the seat. Then he drops his head on Ryo’s thigh, staring up at him.

Ryo meets his gaze, hand coming up to card through his hair. Edo closes his eyes. “Wow, Fubuki had the right idea. This is nice,” he murmurs, shifting more snugly into his lap. Above him, Ryo chuckles softly. 

“He used to make me do this all the time.” 

“Sounds like you had a pretty hard life,” Edo says without thinking, eyes snapping open to evaluate how Ryo responds. He’s greeted by a tight-lipped smile, like he’s charmed and doesn’t want to be. “He’s important to you,” he says, and he knows he should be asking, not trying to prove something by stating it like fact, especially when he’s actually interested in the answer He wants to understand, wants to impose on Ryo’s life, even if he’s not sure how much he’s permitted to. Mostly, he wants Ryo to want him to know.

“He’s my best friend.”

Edo leans his head back when Ryo’s hand stills, tracing down his cheek bone and along his jaw. “You’ve known him, what, six years?” 

Ryo laughs shortly. “Try twelve.”

He twists, pushing himself up with his hands and looking at him in surprise. Ryo’s hand falls from his face. “Since you were  _ nine? _ ” 

“His birthday is the day before mine. We were paired for a project in fourth grade, and we kept hanging out afterwards. It helped that our siblings were the same age.” 

Edo stares at him. “Props to Fubuki for putting up with you for so long,” he says, and immediately regrets it, remembering Ryo’s earlier concerns. He opens his mouth again to amend his mistake. “I mean, he seems hard to deal with too. I guess you’re the perfect match.”

If he struck too close to home, Ryo doesn’t show it. He pushes him gently back into his seat and shrugs. “Having friends is… simpler, when you’re young,” he says, and Edo is struck by how alien a concept that is. 

A childhood surrounded by adults, as both peers and guardians, meant he’d never had the chance to be around people his own age. He was tainted to them, irreconcilably  _ other _ , and the acceptance he received from adults was limited and practiced. He could join in on conversations, he could share a lunch with them, but there was always something separate, things he wasn’t privy to. He turns away from Ryo, because he knows it shows on his face. 

Edo plays on his phone while he attempts to pull himself together enough to change the subject. He fires off a text to Manjoume to congratulate him once more, and wish him luck for being in public with Fubuki. Ryo’s hand rests on his arm when he hits send, and he looks at him from the corner of his eye. 

“Sorry. That wasn’t the most tactful thing I’ve ever said.” 

He shrugs, dislodging his hand. “It’s nothing.”

“Edo.”

He turns to him, hopes he looks more stable than he feels. “I’m fine, Ryo.” 

Ryo doesn’t buy it, but doesn’t ask again. He squeezes his arm, and follows it down to his hand, lacing their fingers together and looking at him. “Is this fine?” 

Edo looks at their interlocked fingers, and nods. “It’s nice,” he murmurs, and tries not to start when Ryo’s head leans in beside his, his thumb pressing small circles against his skin. 

They ride in silence until the car pulls up outside, just long enough for Edo to wonder what they’re meant to do for the rest of the evening, alone in the small apartment. He can think of little he’d enjoy less than being awake when Fubuki drags Manjoume in, especially if they’ve been drinking, and he assumes they won’t be out long. He climbs out quickly and walks ahead of Ryo to the elevator, holding the button for the doors. It takes longer than expected, and Edo quickly becomes aware why, seeing the black cardboard he’s holding. 

“Fubuki would have killed me,” Ryo says apologetically, entering the elevator and standing across from him. He eyes off the loud advertisement of a shirt for a long moment without any attempt at subtlety. He sees his arms raise, like he wants to hide the design with crossed arms, but they quickly drop back down. Edo smirks.

“You mean you aren’t Thunder’s number one fan – or should that be number ten?” 

Ryo just looks at him pointedly. Edo laughs, and steps closer. His head is light and distant, probably a combination of all the adrenaline and testosterone and tumultuous tonal shifts of the evening, but it drives him to chase his instincts.

The elevator begins its climb as Edo traces his finger over the lightning bolt, a smile playing on his lips. He meets Ryo’s eyes, sees uncertainty there, hesitation and restraint, and god, if he’s taking risks, he might as well follow through. He tips onto his toes, presses his hand flat to Ryo’s abdomen, and brings their lips together, flooded by something familiar and new all at once.

Ryo’s hands drop to his waist almost immediately, and Edo closes his eyes, kissing him slowly, lips moving without urgency. He brings his free hand up to curl around his neck, allows his body to fall forward onto Ryo, pulls his lower lip into his mouth and bites down on it softly. Drawing away, his eyes drift up, searching Ryo’s for something he can’t quite identify yet. They share a long moment, locked in embrace, breath warm on each other’s lips, before Edo retreats, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He rights his jacket on his shoulders and looks to the climbing number display near the door, head spinning with indecision. 

He doesn’t look at Ryo, practically leaping from the elevator when the doors open with a chime. He unlocks their apartment, walks in, dumps his briefcase on the table. Spins to face him. “Well. Say something.”

Ryo looks up at him, placing Fubuki’s sign on the table, but doesn’t speak. Edo hates that he has to think about it. 

“I kissed you, and you’re not going to say  _ anything _ ?” 

“I thought you probably regretted it.” 

Edo tries not to stare, dumbfounded. He moves to the kitchen, retrieving a bottle of black tea, and unscrewing the lid. He drinks deeply before he feels like he’s run through enough options to voice one. “Maybe Fubuki is smarter than you, after all.”

Ryo’s expression is unreadable, and Edo feels his frustration growing, hot shame and embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck. “Do you want something to eat.” He shakes his head, and Edo ignores him, setting out enough ingredients to cook for them both. He can make about five different meals, if pressed, and they’re all polished enough for him to share. He dices tomato and tries pointedly not to look when Ryo hangs his coat over a chair, pulls Fubuki’s shirt over his head and drops it onto the sign. He wanders into his bedroom for a replacement, and Edo can’t help noticing the way his spine juts out. 

This feels too familiar. He’s reminded of living together for months, reminded yet again of how things were. When they had no choice for privacy, not when it came at the price of their safety, when creating passable meals from whatever scraps of supplies they could accrue was all they had. They’d both been dropping weight quickly, but it wore more noticeably on Ryo’s frame, broad shoulders hollowing out, waist cutting too sharp an angle. He knew, of course, by the end of it, that their diet was the least of the factors in his declining health. But looking at him now, catching a glimpse of his body for the first time in almost a year, he doesn’t think Ryo has meaningfully regained any of his previous mass. 

Internally, he amends the rice he’d planned to use in the meal for a pasta, evaluates what else he can alter to make the meal more filling. Ryo emerges from his bedroom in a sweater he hasn’t seen before, soft and dark grey, and sits opposite him. “Can I help?” 

Edo nods, passing him the knife and chopping board, turning to begin preparations for the next ingredient. They work together quietly, and it feels so easy, performing the lines they’d rehearsed for months, free to inhabit one another’s space. It’s hard not to wonder if this is progress or just regression, using the ease of practiced cohabitation to avoid moving forward, allowing them to stagnate and remain as they are. It’s safe, and probably the most peaceful option, but Edo’s always been one for disrupting things. He stirs the ravioli in the pot, watches Ryo closely from the corner of his eye, tries to find the words to voice all he wants to say. 

Marufuji Ryo is a master of bad decisions, but Edo doesn’t know how many of those have lingered to become regrets. Maybe he doesn’t have the temperament to let them ferment, or maybe he just doesn’t care enough to. But Edo’s no stranger to remorse, to lying awake playing at what-ifs and counterfactuals, and he can match Ryo pound for pound on poor life choices. He knows what a mistake feels like, both in the moment and after, in its countless mental replays. He’s certainly made enough of them to recognise the signs.

Trying to save Echo, in that other world, had been a mistake. Going along with Saio his entire life had been, too, but it’s a mistake like a fungus, one he hadn’t become aware of until it had taken root in his whole body, grown through the cavity of his chest and every one of his organs. He’s not naive; his regrets are familiar, constant companions. And the more he thinks about it, the less he feels like kissing Ryo could ever be one of them. It’s true that Ryo never answered his question, but the more he thinks about it, the less he minds. He watches him, slicing onion with proficiency, and Edo knows, with more certainty than he’s ever known anything, that he wants to do it again, and again. 


	4. Chapter 4

  
“You know,” Fubuki says, propping himself against the wall, “I don’t think I’m as drunk as I’d like to be.”  
  
“Really.” Manjoume doesn’t look up, busy rifling through his keys in search of the one that opens their front door. He isn’t familiar with Fubuki’s tolerance for alcohol – isn’t even that familiar with his own, really, except that he’s gone through this entire keychain twice and they’re still standing out in the corridor. “How come, master?”  
  
“Why are you still calling me that?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
Fubuki squints down the hall. “You can let it go. We aren’t at Duel Academia any more.”  
  
“I don’t see the connection.”  
  
“I know we started out as a wizard of love and his disciple, but that was years ago. Don’t you think we’ve outgrown it, a little?”  
  
It’s true they haven’t been doing much of their usual lately, but Fubuki’s been overseas. And before that was Darkness, and before that was Yubel, and before that was Cobra, all the way back to Kagemaru: it feels like every time they start to fall into a routine, it gets broken almost immediately. Manjoume abandons his hunt, and turns to face him. “Do you hate it?”  
  
“I wouldn’t necessarily say that, but –”  
  
“Then let me keep doing it. Please.”  
  
“Why are you so attached, Manjoume? I won’t like you any less if you call me Fubuki. Look at Ryo – he does, and we’re obviously an inseparable, unconquerable duo.”  
  
“Maybe I want to have something with you Kaiser doesn’t.”  
  
The words drop into an awful, empty silence. Shame floods him all at once; just because he’s been drinking doesn’t mean he has to let his pettiness slip out. Fubuki and Ryo deserve this reunion, after all the time they’ve spent apart, and he shouldn’t taint it for them.  
  
“If you wanted to confess your love,” Fubuki starts, but it comes out forced. He shakes his head, tries again. “No, I should answer you honestly. What is it you’re actually afraid of, with Ryo and I?”  
  
“I’m not _afraid_ ,” Manjoume says, and then, “Why are we having this conversation out here?”  
  
“Because you can’t find your keys, and because I decided to leave mine at home.”  
  
“You look, then.”  
  
Fubuki takes the bundle of keys he offers, shakes it out. Within about five seconds he’s retrieved a bronze one, which absolutely wasn’t there before, and jangles it triumphantly. “Here we go.”  
  
Well, he isn’t going to complain, so Manjoume unlocks the door and lets them back into the apartment. It’s pitch-black inside, so he switches on the kitchen light; both Edo and Kaiser are probably long since in bed, and part of him wishes he could say the same. Fubuki wanders into the kitchen, leans on the counter, retrieves a glass and fills it with water. Kaiser’s turtleneck rides up when he drinks, ill-fitting on someone who isn’t just skin and bone.  
  
“So. What now.”  
  
“You’re going to be honest with me, Manjoume.”  
  
“I am honest with you.”  
  
“Not about Ryo.”  
  
“If this is about last night, like I said, I’m not interested –”  
  
“That’s something you need to be honest with _yourself_ about,” Fubuki says, “but you’re trying to avoid the question. Let’s talk somewhere else.”  
  
“Your room?”  
  
“Mm. All right.”  
  
Manjoume follows him through the common area, turning the lights off as he goes. He spent his fair share of time in Fubuki’s dorm at Academia – initially because the Manjoume Room was so prone to invasion by Judai and his followers, later because it was larger and airier than his own – and he’s expecting his room here to be the same. But when Fubuki nudges the door open and gestures him inside, it’s mostly just filled with boxes. The only signs that someone is just moving in, not out, are the purple sheets and the suspiciously full wardrobe.  
  
Fubuki picks his way through the debris to plant himself on the bed, then pats the space opposite. Manjoume baulks.  
  
“Isn’t that weird?”  
  
“Well, we can’t sit on the _floor_ ,” he says, like it’s self-evident, and repeats the gesture. “Come on.”  
  
He perches himself delicately on a corner, and the bed dips beneath his weight. Fubuki scoots backward to brace himself against the headboard.  
  
“So,” says Fubuki.  
  
“So,” says Manjoume.  
  
“What did you mean, having something with me that Ryo doesn’t?”  
  
“I didn’t mean anything.”  
  
“Manjoume.”  
  
It’s been years, and he still can’t lie to his master at the best of times; after being out tonight, even with the alcohol beginning to wear off, he has no chance at all. He hunches his shoulders. “You aren’t going to like it.”  
  
“I don’t think I really need to.”  
  
“Well. I mean.” He presses his hands against the sheets, watches himself spread his fingers. “You and the Kaiser are best friends. You only spent time at school with me because he wasn’t there.”  
  
“Hmm. I’ll admit, that might have been true at first, but it didn’t _stay_ true.”  
  
“Still. I know I could never have been your best friend, but at least I got to be your disciple. I realise it’s only a consolation prize, but –”  
  
“Manjoume,” Fubuki says patiently, as if he’s explaining himself to a child, “I can have more than one best friend.”  
  
“You can’t be _equal best_ at something.”  
  
“You graduated equal first from Academia.”  
  
“On a technicality.”  
  
“The technicality that there’s no rule against having more than one number one?”  
  
Manjoume tries very, very hard not to sigh. “Master, the point is that I know I’m second to Kaiser. You don’t have to soften the blow.”  
  
“Well,” Fubuki says, “one, friendship isn’t about rules. I’m allowed to have two best friends if I want. I did before, and that seemed to be acceptable.”  
  
“I just don’t believe I’m on Kaiser’s level.”  
  
“Well, why not? You both understand me as much.” He sprawls out so he’s lying down, regards Manjoume with his head tipped to one side. “And two, different friends can have different purposes. You and Asuka and Shou didn’t all come top of your grade because you duel the same way, did you?”  
  
“ _My_ grade?”  
  
“Slip of the tongue,” Fubuki amends, a little too fluidly, “and my point stands. You and Ryo have completely different appeals. Think of it like trying to decide between pineapple and cherry flavour, when really you’d be best off alternating. Or getting both.”  
  
“Which one am I?”  
  
“Cherry, obviously. Pineapples are spikier.”  
  
“I could be spiky, if I tried.”  
  
“I’m sure you could. But I like cherry – like _you_ – fine.”  
  
Fubuki’s still watching him with gentle eyes, no judgment there at all, and it compels him to honesty. “I don’t understand what I have to offer that Kaiser doesn’t.”  
  
“Hmm, well. When we spend time together, you look at me like you want to be there.”  
  
“Isn’t that the case with him?”  
  
“Ryo looks at me a bit differently, I think. Maybe he’s become impervious to my charms, but he needs to be bullied into socialising sometimes. I suppose that’s why Edo – anyway, that isn’t important. Do you believe me yet, Manjoume?”  
  
Mulling things over, it’s definitely apparent Kaiser isn’t the most all-purpose of friends. It’s hard to imagine him at a bar, or as a co-conspirator in some madcap scheme, or even like this, letting Fubuki slowly tease out his vulnerabilities. He’s not sure he can believe they’re equals, but, well. This is a start. “I think so.”  
  
“Then you’ll go ahead and drop the _master_ thing?”  
  
“I can try.”  
  
“It can’t be that difficult a habit to break, Jun.”  
  
People call him by name all the time – well, his brothers do, and his manager does. But it’s a quite a first with Fubuki gazing directly at him, posed dramatically across the bed, hair fanned out like some fairytale princess. Manjoume coughs and looks away, suddenly warm.  
  
“I told you, I’ll do my best.”  
  
“Hmm,” he says, and then, “Say it now.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Say my name too, to prove you can. It’s only three syllables.”  
  
Fubuki’s eyes are boring into him, and it’s a struggle not to fidget. “Mas– um, you’re making this weird.”  
  
“Oh, would two syllables be easier? You can call me Bucky if you’d really like, but it’s more of a stage name than anything. It’d be like calling you Thunder.”  
  
“The length isn’t the problem!”  
  
“You’re stalling.”  
  
“I’m not stalling,” he protests. And as if it’s been punched out of him, he adds, “Fubuki.”  
  
Fubuki rolls onto his side with a huge, sunny grin that makes it hard to hold a grudge. He seems far more satisfied than the situation actually warrants. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”  
  
“It would’ve been easier if you weren’t staring at me.”  
  
“You’re a pro duelist. They pay you to be stared at, live on international television, before an adoring audience of millions.”  
  
“They pay me to duel.”  
  
“And be stared at.”  
  
“They’re watching my duel!”  
  
“I was watching you.”  
  
“Even if you were, the circumstances are different,” Manjoume says, resolving himself to the argument. “A duel arena is completely different to – to inviting me into your room and aggressively sprawling at me!”  
  
“What’s a little aggressive sprawling between friends, Jun?”  
  
He decides not to point out that sprawling, too, is highly contextual; it’d be a little friendlier if they weren’t on Fubuki’s bed, and if Fubuki hadn’t been slowly migrating towards him over the past several minutes. Instead, he decides to quit while he’s ahead, and stands.  
  
“I’m exhausted. I’ll see you tomorrow?”  
  
“It’d be more surprising if you didn’t.”  
  
In hindsight, it had been a fairly ridiculous thing to say. He paces to the door to smooth over it. “Well, good night. Fubuki.”  
  
His smile only widens in response. Manjoume’s always liked him best like this, when he’s pleased with himself and can’t help but let it shine through. “Good night.”  


*

Manjoume stumbles into the kitchen early the next morning, still barely awake. The room is empty except for a shirt on the table, folded neatly; a brief inspection reveals it to be Fubuki’s from his duel. He sets it back down and lumbers to the fridge for something to drink. He’s pouring himself some orange juice when he sees his phone light up, where it’s tucked snugly into the charging dock, and one particular name on the screen almost makes him drop his glass.  
  
He retrieves it and quickly scrolls through the swathes of congratulations and support, clicking on the thread from Asuka. The first message of the night is a photo of her: she’s wrapped in a blanket, hands cupped around a thermos, the television in the background visibly tuned to his duel. Something pangs in his chest, and at this point it feels as habitual as it is sincere, but she still has a face he’d charter a flight for. She’d sent a few more messages later on, but he finds himself caught on the most recent, sent at 4am his time. She says she’s passing on her wishes, and she hopes he’s taking care of her brother.  
  
He types a brief reply, then pauses, fingers stilling over the keys. He isn’t sure why, but something in the message feels wrong. He erases his draft, and tries again. And again. After the third time, he gives up, holding down the backspace key and watching the far-too-long message disappear. In the end, he shoots her a concise _thank you_ , and flips through the other notifications. There’s one from Judai, and he feels his heart falter a little at the sight. It’s hard to look at the message without remembering what Fubuki had said at their housewarming party, how confidently he’d asserted the nature of Manjoume’s feelings towards him. That’s something he doesn’t have the energy to deal with yet, though, and he mentally sets it aside to unpack later. Maybe never.  
  
He returns his phone to the dock without responding to anything else, begins to play with the idea of food – his stomach loudly supportive as soon as he has the thought – when the door swings open. The aroma that enters with Edo Phoenix literally makes his mouth water, and he has to try not to drool when his housemate places an oversized foil tray onto the kitchen counter.  
  
“Good morning,” he says easily, and it’s not the loaded pleasantry that sets his teeth on edge. This feels sincere, almost kind, as he untangles the bag from around his arm and sets it down. “Still riding the high from your big win?”  
  
Manjoume had, between the snubbing by Kaiser and the conversation with his master – with _Fubuki_ – honestly not gotten much of a high to ride. He nods anyway. “Enjoy your throne while you can.”  
  
Edo smirks. “I look forward to you trying to usurp me. How much did Fubuki drink last night?”  
  
“Not enough, according to him.”  
  
Edo scrutinises him for a moment, then shrugs. “Right. Then I’m going to wake up Duel Academia’s finest,” he says easily, and crosses the house to knock loudly on  Fubuki’s bedroom door.  
  
Fubuki answers after about twenty seconds, draped artistically in a dressing gown. He looks exceptionally perky for this early in the morning, but Manjoume’s witnessed his power-napping abilities firsthand, and knows he can snap into wakefulness almost instantly. “Ah, Edo. To what do I owe a visit from my most junior housemate?”  
  
“We’re going to have a brunch to celebrate Manjoume’s victory. You’re invited, naturally.”  
  
“I’d been hoping I might receive an invite from Jun himself.”  
  
“ _Jun_ is otherwise occupied.”  
  
Fubuki’s eyes skim past his visitor and land on Manjoume, who’s clearly doing nothing more strenuous than hovering at the dining table. Manjoume makes a face that hopefully conveys the futility of trying to derail Edo Phoenix, but Fubuki’s expression doesn’t shift.  
  
“Really.”  
  
“Listen, I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we set this quarrel aside, call a truce, and eat together?”  
  
“I wasn’t aware this was a battlefield.”  
  
“Oh, but battlefields are so barbaric.” The edge of Edo’s smile could slice a man in two. “Then you’ll join us?”  
  
“Well, of course. If it’s for the sake of an old, dear friend’s success.”  
  
“Manjoume’s lucky to have someone like you around.”  
  
“I could say the same for you and Ryo. I take it he’s forgiven you for the episode where you ruined his life and sent him spiralling?”  
  
“Yes, well, it’s a side effect of being dropped into a strange world together. The desire to survive bonds people, in a way nothing else can. I suppose things would be unimaginably different if you had been with Ryo instead.” Edo pauses just long enough for Manjoume to understand the trajectory of this conversation; he wants to launch himself across the room and intervene, but in the moment, he can’t seem to make himself move. Edo tilts his chin up at an angle that can’t be comfortable, but that compensates for the height difference, and narrows his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think I saw you in Dark World at all. Did you die early on?” Too late, he seems to realise that he’s been rude, but it’s a very thin, though effective, gambit. “Oh no, should I not have asked?”  
  
Fubuki shuts the door in his face. Edo steps back, radiating a kind of aggressive smugness more fit for the duel arena than his own home, and doesn’t even hesitate as he sets course for Kaiser’s. But he falters before knocking, less warlike than he had taken to the other, and seems almost meek as he walks inside. Manjoume can hear them talking, Edo’s voice alternating with Kaiser’s deeper one, but he doesn’t have it in him to try make out the conversation. He’s not sure what one would need to offer Marufuji Ryo to convince him to wake earlier than usual, but Edo Phoenix is a man of many talents. One of which appears to be the ability to break through the Kaiser’s unwavering stubbornness, because a few short minutes is all it takes before he walks out of the room looking pleased with himself, a scruffy, but fully dressed Kaiser at his side.  
  
“I hope Fubuki doesn’t keep us waiting,” Edo says, as soon as he rejoins him. He reaches into the plastic bag he’d been toting upon arrival, retrieving pre-wrapped place settings that he spreads across the table. He doesn’t actually seem to want a response, complaining about Fubuki for the sake of it, and Manjoume can’t bring himself to interrupt, except:  
  
“Edo, what is this?”  
  
He pauses, midway through unwrapping the foil from the tray. “It’s a celebratory brunch for your victory,” he says, as though he’s surprised Manjoume has to ask.  
  
“You know, Jun, the hallowed, time-honoured tradition of celebratory brunch?” Fubuki’s voice is music to his ears. It reeks of sarcasm, but he still shoots Manjoume a smile as he walks over. “However, I certainly won’t be complaining if it means I can spend time with my two closest compatriots, and esteemed pro duelist Edo Phoenix.”  
  
Manjoume’s attention shifts from Fubuki to Edo, whose hands still on the tray. He seems to wrestle briefly with his response, but settles for tipping his head in polite challenge. When he receives a coy smile, Edo returns one in kind, continuing to unwrap the tray as Fubuki takes a seat. “I’m glad I could –”  
  
“Edo,” Kaiser cuts in, voice slightly raised. “Do we need glasses?”  
  
Edo seems to consider making some cutting remark, but ultimately turns toward the kitchen without comment. “Yes. I bought champagne,” he says, and inhales sharply when he reaches for the standard wine glasses. Kaiser’s hand falters. “Champagne flutes, Ryo. We aren’t wholly uncivilised.”  
  
Fubuki pretends not to acknowledge the comment clearly aimed his way, pulling out the seat at the head of the table and gesturing for Manjoume to claim it. After a moment of hesitation, he does, and Fubuki drops heavily into the chair beside him.  
  
“Did I tell you about how I wound up dueling in an underground cage match in the States, Jun?”  
  
He’s heard disappointingly little about Fubuki’s travels so far, and tries not to perk up too much at the chance. “Not yet.”  
  
“Well, I was meant to be spending a week in New York in December, and I realised, the night before I flew in, that I hadn’t made plans to see any pro league matches there. But the thing was, winter holidays are supposed to be the busiest time, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to get decent tickets on my own. On top of that, there was supposed to be some particularly exciting matchup that round, and I was dying to see it.”  
  
“What did you do?”  
  
“Put an ad on an online bulletin board, of course. A spare ticket, in exchange for anything I could provide.”  
  
“Anything?” He tries not to look too sceptical. “Mast– Fubuki, that sounds dangerous.”  
  
“Believe me, I got my fair share of dubious offers.” He laughs, but his eyes don’t shift from where Kaiser and Edo stand in the kitchen, just a bit too close together as they talk. Manjoume bites his tongue, tries not to ask what’s so much more interesting about them. “I exchanged messages with a few prospective sellers, and ended up settling on someone who claimed to be a woman in her thirties. She seemed harmless enough – well, more harmless than the rest of them. She wanted to meet up beforehand though, to duel, which seemed reasonable enough to me. I mean, why give away a ticket to a pro match if you can’t trust it’s going to someone who loves the sport?”  
  
“Where was the catch?”  
  
“Well, we met on my second day in the city. I wanted to make a good impression, so I’d ensured I was dressed to the nines – well, the tens, if you will.” In the kitchen, Edo’s hand comes to rest on the small of Kaiser’s back, and Fubuki’s voice pitches wildly. “And from the very first instant, she looked like she wanted to eat me alive! I mean, I’m not oblivious to my own masculine charms, but the calculating hunger in her eyes… it was something else.”  
  
“Very nice, master!”  
  
“ _Fubuki_. And it wasn’t particularly nice, in the scheme of things. This woman was looking at me the way Ran used to stare at you, Ryo!” His face is plastered with a grin that looks fake, and Edo’s hand falls away when Kaiser turns to offer him a strained smile. “Remember that Valentine's she gave you an entire card-shaped box of chocolates, and when you forgot about White Day, she stepped on your foot?”  
  
“She broke my toe. I recall, yes.”  
  
Fubuki grins until Kaiser turns back to his task, and it falls away suddenly. Manjoume decides to prod him back into it.  
  
“What happened next?”  
  
“Right.” Fubuki blinks. “Right. So we dueled, and I won. I’d been a little worried, to be honest, because I was coming into it blind, with a horribly experimental deck. But I beat her, and she gave me a time, and said that was when she’d come pick me up for the big match.”  
  
“And then?”  
  
“On the night, she came to get me in this huge, battered van. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because all women have their eccentricities, but then we started driving in the opposite direction to the arena. And she asked, quite seriously, if I had my deck with me. I did, of course, because I only take it off my person when I’m at home or going in the water, but she’d phrased it in such a strange way. I still remember the way her eyes looked in the rear-view mirror as she spoke. And, well, that was when I started to get a little suspicious.”  
  
“Only then?” Manjoume asks flatly.  
  
“You know me, Jun. I like to believe in people, give them the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. It’s too rare a thing these days.”  
  
Fubuki’s gaze hasn’t moved from the kitchen the whole time, not once. Across from them, Edo smirks and says something quiet, lilting, that has to be a snarky comment; Kaiser’s eyes flash as he responds with a retort of his own. Edo laughs and pats his shoulder in consolation, then asks him to get plates.  
  
There’s a moment, where Edo steps after him, and Manjoume can only assume he thinks the fridge is obscuring them from sight, because at the angle he can just make out the way Edo’s fingers wrap around Kaiser’s as they pause to look at each other for a long second. Edo’s face softens when he smiles, their hands still joined, and Manjoume frowns. He glances in Fubuki’s direction, hoping they’re at least not visible to him, and manages to tear his eyes away. “So what happened next?”  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“With the woman and the underground dueling circuit.”  
  
“Oh. So eventually we parked somewhere, and as soon as I got out of the car, I found myself in… well, I know what it means if someone abducts you, asks if you brought a deck, and drops you in the middle of a ring. And it dawned on me: she hadn’t been sizing me up as a conquest, when we first met. She’d been sizing me up as an investment, like a horse, trying to figure out if I would be worth bringing as a challenger.”  
  
At last, the others round the corner, neatly joining the table and presenting the food. Edo shoots Ryo a pointed glance when he takes a small helping, and Manjoume is relieved to see him amend it. A smile slips onto Edo’s face, perhaps not entirely conscious, as he fills his own plate.  
  
“Fubuki, that’s a really interesting story, and I’d love to know what happened next, but this is supposed to be about _Manjoume._ ”  
  
Fubuki’s mouth claps shut faster than Manjoume has ever seen, his face passing through a series of emotions, none of them good, before he settles on polite. “Is there anything _you’d_ like to contribute about Jun, then, Edo?”  
  
He isn’t sure how to feel about being used as a chew toy for them to channel their issues through, but it definitely isn’t positive. He casts a desperate eye towards Ryo, whose mouth is full, and looks about as uncertain as he feels.  
  
Edo replies smoothly, barely missing a beat. “Naturally.” He raises his glass of champagne in Manjoume’s direction. “You dueled admirably, and I look forward to our meeting on the field soon. You’ve come an incredibly long way from sorting cards in my warehouse.”  
  
It isn’t quite an accurate way to describe his history, but Manjoume still flushes at the praise.  
  
“Actually, Jun has been an asset to the dueling world since he was a boy,” Fubuki says, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “He won the junior championship when he was seven.”  
  
Manjoume doesn’t recall telling him about that, and it surprises him to hear he knows. His stint in the junior league had been short-lived, once he championed his first season and swapped out his deck, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually spoken about it.  
  
“Did you?” Edo’s eyebrows raise. When he nods, he continues. “I’m surprised we missed each other. We must have been in different leagues, then.”  
  
“How did you know about that, master?”  
  
“Jun.”  
  
“Sorry, Fubuki.”  
  
Fubuki beams at him. “Asuka mentioned it when I was trying to do reconnaissance on your behalf, to scope out how she felt about you.”  
  
That had to have been in their first year; it already feels impossibly long ago. He’s overcome with a wave of affection for Fubuki, the way he always is when someone bothers remembering details about him, and immediately feels pathetic for it.

“I see.” He sips at his champagne, trying not to let his distaste for it show on his face, and turns to Edo. “We could’ve been rivals all this time.”  
  
“You might have stood a chance of beating me back then.”  
  
“Didn’t Jun already beat you, less than a year ago?” Fubuki’s tone drips with honey, but his words land like a whip. Edo looks towards him sharply.  
  
“He did. Which is largely why we’re here today, because from then he’s only grown.” He pauses, and practically bats his eyelashes. “When was the last time _you_ won a duel, Fubuki?”  
  
The sound of Kaiser kicking him under the table is entirely unsubtle. Edo’s expression doesn’t even waver.  
  
“Ryo, it’s fine. Edo’s just overcompensating for feeling threatened,” Fubuki says conversationally. “I suppose it’s because of our torrid history, and all.”  
  
Edo rolls his eyes. Kaiser just stares at his friend. “Torrid?”  
  
“Oh, you know. Full of passion, romance, and adventure.”  
  
“That’s certainly a way to describe it.”  
  
“Well, how would you?” Fubuki’s eyes dance as he leans in on his hands, a soft smile playing on his lips.  
  
Kaiser thinks about it for slightly longer than is comfortable, enough time that Fubuki’s smile fades and Edo turns to watch him. Manjoume thinks about every time he’s heard Kaiser be _too_ sincere, and isn’t sure if he wants this answer to go over well or not.  
  
“Mercurial,” he says finally, seemingly satisfied. Fubuki’s lips purse for a moment, before he grins.  
  
“Mercurial. That’s just like you. I go for the romantic answer, and you choose _mercurial._ ” He tosses his hair over his shoulder and reaches for his champagne glass, raising it in a toast. “To old, dear friends.” He tips it in Manjoume and Kaiser’s direction. “And new.” His eyes slide towards Edo as he drinks.  
  
Edo copies the action and sips from his own glass, and the rigid atmosphere slowly fades as they eat. Manjoume loads his plate: he’s eaten well before, but never like this. Never felt a pastry crumble so perfectly under his teeth, or dissolve the moment it met his palate. Undignified as it is, he barely manages to stifle the noise that escapes him at the flawless blend of buttery sweetness. Edo seems to catch it, and grins at him, pouring himself a third glass of champagne.  
  
“I’ll have another too, if you wouldn’t mind,” Fubuki says, and slides his glass across the table. Edo graciously fills his as well, and Manjoume watches Fubuki fidget slightly before he speaks. He braces himself for the third round of sparring to begin. “This was a very kind gesture, Edo. A little over the top, but I’m a man who appreciates extravagance, and opulence – in moderation – is never a bad thing. Thank you for organising this for Jun. He deserves it, and I think it’s important that we, as a ménage, have regular get-togethers.”  
  
Edo places the bottle down and looks at him. Across the table, Kaiser starts slightly. “Thank you, Fubuki.”  
  
“We’re practically strangers, which seems ludicrous given our mutual friends. We should try to spend some time together.”  
  
Kaiser shifts in his seat as Edo smiles faintly. “I’d like that, but I’m fairly busy. Hopefully sometime in future.” He stands, rolls his shoulders to work out some invisible tension. “We can work on establishing that treaty I mentioned.”  
  
Fubuki smiles at him, and it’s so genuine that it makes Manjoume admire him all over again. He may be working on not treating their relationship as master and student, but there are still plenty of reasons he looks up to Fubuki, not least his impartiality and innate pacifism. It remains to be seen whether that admiration will remain, now that they’re supposedly equals; he’s not really sure he wants to see it go, or that he’ll have much to go on without it. But his thought process is interrupted when Edo rises from the table.  
  
“Enjoy the rest of brunch, gentlemen,” he says pleasantly, and collects both his and Kaiser’s plates, taking them to the sink. “Ryo, would you mind joining me in my bedroom?”  
  
The other parties react more drastically than Manjoume thinks the request deserves. Fubuki’s eyebrows shoot beneath his bangs, and Kaiser’s back straightens, pointedly looking anywhere but his oldest friend, as he stands and excuses himself.  
  
Fubuki watches Kaiser with the most sceptical expression he’s ever worn in Manjoume’s presence, as he finishes his crepe. “Really?”  
  
Kaiser continues to avoid his eyes. “Don’t.” His voice is soft, and he places his phone from his pocket onto the table, as Edo returns. Their eyes meet and Edo, offhandedly, congratulates Manjoume once more, before the two of them leave in time. The door to the bedroom closes, and it suddenly feels a million degrees colder.  
  
He looks to Fubuki, whose gaze is unseeing, boring into the dining table. He reaches for a breakfast slider, takes a bite that ends up being half of it. “Mas– Fubuki, are you okay?”  
  
Fubuki’s eyes snap up to him. “Duel me.”  
  
“Is this because of what Edo said?”  
  
“It’s because I haven’t dueled you in months. Since second year, even.”  
  
Manjoume has his doubts about whether Fubuki will be able to play his best, and do this challenge justice, but he decides to go along with it anyway. It’s his free day, and it isn’t like he has anything better to do. “Alright. I’ll clean up here, and you can fetch your deck.”  
  
He stands, and shambles off. Manjoume makes quick work of their brunch things, returning the trays of food to the fridge, and rinsing off their crockery. Edo had at least shown the courtesy of putting his and Kaiser’s plates in the dishwasher before leaving, because that’s just the kind of person he is. Still, it doesn’t make Manjoume feel any less strange about the whole situation.  
  
Fubuki returns after far too long, even considering he probably had to dig his way through about fifty moving boxes, and drops into the same chair. Manjoume, who’s been flitting restlessly around the kitchen in the meantime, sits opposite.  
  
“Do we have any particular house rules?”  
  
“We should really shuffle each others’ decks,” Manjoume says, not at all still hung up about this days later. “It’s only fair. But neither Kaiser nor Edo will let anyone else touch theirs, so it’s not much of one.”  
  
Fubuki runs his thumb along the edge of his deck, ruffling the cards gently. “I think I’ll have to abstain as well, Jun.”  
  
“That’s fine.”  
  
They shuffle, draw their starting hands. Manjoume, graciously, elects to give his opponent the choice whether or not to go first, and he takes it.  
  
Fubuki frowns at his hand. Sets two cards. Combos immediately into Red-Eyes Black Dragon.  
  
Manjoume opens his mouth, but immediately snaps it shut again. He busies himself with looking at his cards instead, even though he’s already planned out his opening turn, and accounted for most of his possible draws. His friend is fragile right now, and it won’t do to be insensitive about his choice of monster, even if it raises a million questions.  
  
When he glances up, Fubuki’s watching him with a bitter smile. “If you want to ask, then ask.”  
  
“I thought that card belonged to Darkness.”  
  
“Well, Darkness is me, Jun – or at least, isn’t not me. I spent my months away experimenting with all kinds of strategies, with every deck you could think of, and I kept coming back to Red-Eyes. It’s… I don’t know how to put it into words. Except, maybe, that it’s me as well.”  
  
To be honest, Red-Eyes is even further out of the meta than Cyber Art. These days, there are too many common archetypes that shut it down, or do the same thing better. Manjoume just nods.  
  
“Is it my turn?”  
  
As he’d been expecting, Fubuki crumbles in about three minutes. He isn’t making any obvious misplays, and his deck is sound outside of its reliance on the Red-Eyes line, but his dueling lacks bite. The worst part is that he’s obviously improved since graduation, because there’s the ghost of a great duelist in him, but it remains buried outside of the rare flash of brilliance. The silence in their apartment is profound, and Manjoume’s quiet disappointment sinks into it.  
  
“I demand a rematch.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I was warming up.”  
  
They could play a hundred more duels today, or a thousand, and the outcome would be the same every time. Manjoume’s dueled angry before, and it’s infinitely better than dueling empty. He toys with the ways he could turn him down, playing them over in his head; Kaiser had told him not to be afraid of disagreement, and it’s only just starting to dawn on him why. But, well, he’s never been able to win against Fubuki when it counts. “What are you trying to do?”  
  
“Is that a yes?”  
  
“If that’s what you want.”  
  
He goes along with it, again. Fubuki folds even faster this time, probably because his heart is barely in it at all. Manjoume’s fully evolved his Armed Dragon, and is about to deal the finishing blow, when his opponent abruptly sets his hand aside and scoops up his deck.  
  
“This isn’t working.”  
  
“What isn’t?”  
  
“This, as a distraction.” Fubuki glances up from under his fringe. “It isn’t making me feel better at all. As if I’d be able to duel without it reminding me of Ryo.”  
  
“Of Kaiser?”  
  
“He was the first person I really enjoyed dueling. Of course, Asuka and I played together all the time, but it’s the job of an older brother to hold back and let his sister win. I’d never really had to try in a duel, before I met him.”  
  
Manjoume looks at the wood of the table, tracing the grain with his eyes, and tries not to think about Judai. “I see.”  
  
“So they’ve always been linked for me. I gained them around the same time, and lost them one after the other. And now that I’ve found them again… I don’t know. I’m tired, Jun.”  
  
“What are you going to do?”  
  
“Soldier on, I suppose.”  
  
“Have you.” The words stick to his teeth, wedge themselves under his tongue. “Have you ever raised this with Kaiser?”  
  
“I don’t have anything to say to Ryo on the matter.”  
  
“But it’s… about him.”  
  
“He’d either give me pity in response, or nothing at all. I don’t – I don’t want anyone’s sympathy, least of all his. The older I get, the more bitter it tastes.”  
  
The atmosphere is so tense that every breath sits cold against his lungs. There are a thousand wrong answers, and maybe no right ones. He can’t remember a time Fubuki’s ever been this honest, ever admitted that maybe his life isn’t just a series of escapades, lived out in soundbites and dinner-party anecdotes. It’s a hell of a burden to bear on such short notice. Manjoume recentres himself, and speaks.  
  
“What do you want from me?”  
  
“I don’t know that either.”  
  
“Well.” He balls his hands in his lap. “Tell me if you ever work it out, I guess.”  
  
“For now,” Fubuki says sharply, eyes snapping up to meet his, “I want to go out, and I’d welcome your company.”  
  
“Uh. I do have today off, but I’m not dressed for it.”  
  
“I’ll wait. No, better yet – you can get ready, and I’ll meet up with you.”  
  
“Did you have a place in mind?”  
  
“Anywhere but here,” he says, and then he’s out the door.  
  
(Manjoume finds him in the city centre, later, on a bench across the road from a Kaiba Corp building. They make rounds of the local card shops until his feet hurt, but neither of them buy anything.  
  
When they return home, both Kaiser and Edo are still busy, and Fubuki excuses himself to his room.)  


*

Manjoume wakes on the sofa and doesn’t remember when he fell asleep. Golden rays of light streak across the floor, a tell-tale sign that he’s slept late into the afternoon, and he blinks into focus. He doesn’t usually nap, let alone for hours, and in this case it’s probably the fault of the eight different types of carbs at brunch. He makes a mental note to properly thank Edo later on, and shifts to sit up, pausing at the sound of voices.  
  
“I suppose I didn’t know I needed your permission.”  
  
“Ryo. You know that’s not what I meant.”  
  
“Then what _did_ you mean, Fubuki.”  
  
They’re quiet for a moment, and Manjoume hears the unmistakable sound of Fubuki’s head hitting the table.  
  
“I just wish you’d said something to me.”  
  
“Like what?” Kaiser pauses. “You don’t exactly react to these things in a way I’m comfortable with.”  
  
“I’m not like that with you.”  
  
Kaiser makes a small sound, and it settles uncomfortably behind Manjoume’s ribs. “To be honest, I don’t want to talk about it. With anyone.”  
  
“But we’re –” Fubuki cuts himself off sharply, exhales through his teeth. “Never mind.”  
  
“We’re what?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
Manjoume has never felt like Kaiser and Fubuki were close to his age, always so adult, so other. But hearing them discuss this, an argument with emotions running close to the surface, he’s suddenly aware of their proximity to his own youth. Still half-asleep and trying to eavesdrop, despite himself, he pulls out his phone and texts Edo to see if he’s home.  
  
“Well.” When Kaiser finally speaks, his tone is a little harsher than usual. “We’re talking now. What do you want to know.”  
  
“Was that your… the first time?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Dark World?”  
  
“Y… this is stupid. I hate this. Yes.”  
  
“Do you like him?” The silence somehow becomes even more tense. “Okay.”  
  
“Just ask whatever it is you’re trying not to.”  
  
Fubuki’s words rush from him like a breath he’s been holding too long. “Were you ever planning on telling me about it? If Edo hadn’t made it so obvious, would you even have told me?”  
  
“I don’t see why I would have had to.”  
  
Fubuki’s response is interrupted by Manjoume’s phone going off, loud as a gunshot in the quiet room. Too late, he realises his mistake; when he sits up, it’s to find both his upperclassmen staring at him. Desperately, he looks to the text for an escape.  
  
         > _I’m in a meeting. Did something happen?_  
  
He locks the phone and puts it in his pocket, not bothering to type out a reply. Faking a yawn, he stands. “Sorry. I just woke up.”  
  
“You’re a bad liar, Jun.”  
  
He flushes, and averts his eyes slightly. Kaiser stares at Fubuki with some kind of reserved frustration.  
  
“I’m going to bed,” he says, and stands from the table.  
  
Fubuki turns back to him. “Yours, this time? Or Edo’s?” There’s not even any bite to it.  
  
“This conversation has ended,” Kaiser says flatly, and escapes while he can, closing his door behind him.  
  
Manjoume hesitates before walking over, unsure what he can offer. He’s trying to decide how to broach the subject when Fubuki collapses into his chair, temples cradled in his hands.  
  
“Not now, Manjoume.”  
  
His family name feels like being backhanded, and he swallows back his hurt. “Fubuki, do you want to talk about it? I know you don’t usually like to… be serious, but I’m happy to listen.”  
  
Fubuki’s head turns in his direction slightly. “Can we go to your room?”  
  
He mentally tries to remember if the state of his room is even slightly passable, if he even remembered to make his bed that morning, and decides it doesn’t matter: his closest friend is upset. He nods, and leads the way there, kicking a shirt out of sight and smoothing the covers before he and Fubuki sit.  
  
With the door closed, just the two of them in his too-messy room, Manjoume feels a crushing weight fall. He stands and opens the door to the balcony, just to be doing something, because it suddenly feels too stuffy for him to breathe. Rather than sitting back down, he leans back against the window.  
  
“Are you and the Kaiser going to be okay?”  
  
“Oh, you know us. We always are.”  
  
“I thought you were going to be serious.”  
  
“Sorry. Force of habit.”  
  
He isn’t sure how this conversation is going to go, tries to think about anything other than the fact that they’re alone in his bedroom. Which shouldn’t be weird in and of itself, considering how much time they spent in each other’s dorms at Duel Academia, but this feels different somehow. And not just because the situation is so loaded. “So?”  
  
Fubuki turns, cradles his head in his hands. “I think we’ll be fine, but I want us to be better than fine… does that make sense?” Manjoume thinks about the past few days, and nods. He catches himself, looks up with a dawning expression. “Right. Of course.”  
  
“You can let it go.” He echoes the words he was told last night. “You aren’t at Duel Academia anymore.”  
  
“I guess I did end up teaching you a thing or two.”  
  
“You give good advice. Maybe you should listen to yourself sometimes.”  
  
“You know that proverb about doing as I say?”  
  
“And not as you do?”  
  
“Yes, well, I think it applies here. I’d never steer _you_ wrong.”  
  
That’s strangely flattering, but he doesn’t have time to savour it. “You’re avoiding the question.”  
  
“I suppose I am.”  
  
For all his light-hearted words, he looks strangely lonely. If their positions were reversed, Fubuki would probably manage to cross the gap, flop over him or nudge his shoulder or make some kind of contact – well, he would if he were dealing with Ryo. Manjoume fights down the sick feeling in his stomach, and speaks. “Can I… Can I touch you?”  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“I don’t know.” He interlocks his hands, stares uselessly at the way his fingers lattice. “It seems like what you would do. But that’s stupid, isn’t it.”  
  
Fubuki’s voice is warm. “Not really. Come here, then.”  
  
Manjoume crosses the room and sits beside him. It isn’t at all lost on him that, even now, when he’s supposed to be doing the comforting, he’s still following Fubuki’s lead. Tentatively, he raises an arm, brings it around his friend’s shoulders. “Is this fine?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Fubuki tucks his head into the crook of his neck, and Manjoume rests on top of him. Fubuki’s hair is soft against his skin, and the clean scent of it fills his nostrils. After overthinking it for far too long, he rubs his hand slightly against his arm on the other side, feels him relax into the touch. “You’re not off the hook, you know. You still didn’t answer me.”  
  
He thinks he hears Fubuki laugh softly. “Honestly, I don’t really want to talk about if things are going to smooth out anyway. But, if you’d really like to know what it is you stumbled across, I was trying to gauge what’s been going on with the Edo entanglement.”  
  
“The way he’s been talking to you? I think that’s just… how he tries to bond.”  
  
“Not that.”  
  
He frowns. “Then what? He and Kaiser… being alone together?”  
  
“Yes, that.”  
  
“I don’t think you need to feel threatened by Edo, ma– Fubuki. That’s what he _wants_ , and he’ll never have the kind of bond you do with Kaiser.”  
  
Fubuki makes a sound and shifts out of his embrace, gazing at him momentarily. Manjoume’s known disappointment more than anything else, knows how it tastes, and is far too accustomed to being the one it’s aimed at. But for all that, it almost never comes from Fubuki: he can count the number of times his friend’s been upset with him on one hand, and can put a date to most of them. The first, being scorned for recruiting Asuka into the Society of Light, had left such a deep mark on him that he’d sworn never to let him down again. And he had been more or less succeeding, up until this week.  
  
But this disappointment sits differently. Fubuki seems lost, distant, and disappointed more in the circumstances than Manjoume himself. He scrambles desperately for something to say. “I mean, Kaiser helped rescue you from Darkness. He cares – no, he loves you.”  
  
“He has a strange way of showing it.”  
  
“I think,” he hazards, aware he’s on increasingly thin ice, “that’s just how love is sometimes?”  
  
“Jun, if I say something, will you promise not to take it the wrong way?”  
  
“I can try.”  
  
“Well, in that case: I don’t think you understand very much about love at all.”  
  
He has to force himself not to recoil. There’s no _right_ way to take that, no matter how hard he searches, and he ducks his head in shame. Maybe for Fubuki, who’d grown up with Asuka and Ryo, love was easy; for Manjoume, whose only childhood playmate had been his brothers’ expectations, it had been a much harder lesson. In his peripheral vision, he sees Fubuki get up and leave, hears the door shut quietly behind him. He wants the room to feel quieter for his absence, colder, but his first instinct is to be grateful for the solitude. At least, this way, he’s only disappointing one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to us about GX?  
> Aster [(twitter)](https://twitter.com/heroshipping) [(tumblr)](http://manicpixiedreampharaoh.tumblr.com) is the one who likes Edo/Ryo, and Lu [(twitter)](https://twitter.com/acceluration) is the one who unironically likes Fubuki.


End file.
